The Land of the Blind
by notmanos
Summary: Angel is back in L.A., just as a wave of violence following a strangely familiar pattern sweeps the city. Logan and Angel struggle to get to the bottom of the problem before things get any worse , but they're rapidly running out of time.
1. Part 1

Disclaimer: The character of Wolverine & the X Men is owned by 20th Century Fox and Marvel Comics. No copyright infringement intended. The characters of Angel & Buffy the Vampire Slayer are owned by 20th Century Fox and Mutant Enemy. Bob and his crew are all mine. Don't touch, or I'll have to hit you with a rolled up restraining order.

N.B.: Takes place shortly after "X2", and directly after "Vanishing Point" and "Icarus".

* * *

**The Land Of The Blind**

_In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. - Irish Proverb_

**1**

Los Angeles, California

When they first started talking to him, he thought it was a special effect.

Of course, the point of Tara Reid breaking out of her usual cinematic crapfest to say in her raspy, whiskey soaked voice _"Tony, we need your help" _seemed elusive, but he assumed the filmmakers must have known how truly dreadful the film was, and tried to inject a little unpredictability into it.

But when it happened again - this time it was Ben Stiller who turned away from his straight man role to tell him _"If you don't help us, Tony, we're all gonna die" _- he wondered if Phil the evening projectionist was playing a joke on him. Of course he had no idea how he could, but it made more sense than anything else.

Then he was up in the projectionist's booth, covering for Jesus while he ran to the crapper, and he heard from the dialogue feed, _"Please, Tony, you're our only hope." _He didn't recognize the actor's voice, but he suspected it was Jude Law.

What the hell was going on? He considered the possibility he was nuts, but then he watched some of those weirdoes who sometimes wandered down Sunset pushing grocery carts, and figured that wasn't it. He didn't talk to himself, he never heard voices -except from the movie screen - and he didn't think bread bags were a legitimate style of footwear.

He'd been working as part of the cleaning crew at the Grand Royal Cinema for the past six months now, always seeing this as a stop gap until he could get a better job, but the economy was in the toilet, and he was lucky to have this one. He lived in a small two bedroom apartment on the east side of town, where he paid too much for the privilege of a constantly leaky faucet, a downstairs neighbor who loved mariachi music, and silverfish. He tried to spend as much time at the theater as possible, because it was air conditioned and relatively clean; the movies were beside the point, and most of the time he paid no attention to them at all. Lately all movies seemed like shit to him anyways, as if Hollywood had finally run out of what few ideas it had, and now had a computer program churning out scripts. Even most of the actors had stopped acting as a kind of silent protest.

Maybe he was spending too much time here; maybe he was eating too much rubbery popcorn and drinking too much sugary soda. He took a weekend off, spent most of it sleeping, and didn't feel any better. In fact, a slow, creeping dread was starting to bother him every waking moment, making him feel like he had a lead ball in his stomach. Late Thursday night, when he was half asleep in front of the television, not completely sure what he was watching, he heard the television speaking to him. _"See what's happening, Tony? The world can't wait any longer!"_

He opened his eyes and sat up, accidentally knocking the nachos off his lap, as a horror show unfolded upon the tiny screen.

A tsunami of blood red water - or was it actually blood? - filled and overflowed the Los Angeles "river", the sad concrete sluices featured in a hundred different movies, and the torrent of blood swept through downtown L.A., where crumbling buildings burned and the shredded ruins of people (some he vaguely recognized) lay in an anonymous, gory tangle of limbs and organs beside cars balled up like discarded beer cans. Something had come through here before this, before the ocean had become blood; something had killed everything that moved, and now it was simply cleaning up the detritus, the chewy bits of gristle it couldn't eat.

He hit himself in the leg to make sure he was awake, and was he ever. He'd forgot about the fork he'd been using to eat the microwave burrito (the tortilla was too flimsy to allow eating by hand), and he drove it right into his leg. He yelped in pain and jumped to his feet, the silverware and his Corona bottle hitting the dirty brown carpet, and Tom hanks was still staring at him from within the television, looking out as if from the bottom of the well. _"You have to act fast, Tony. It's only going to get worse. You know it; you can feel it. Free us, and we can save the world."_

Then, as suddenly as it had began, the t.v. was back to showing the Weather Channel's documentary on hurricanes. He would have thought he was dreaming if the fact that his thigh was now bleeding wasn't a testimony to his consciousness.

It was while he was in the bathroom, seeing how bad it was (not too bad; only one tine had honestly broken the surface of his skin), he wondered what it was he was supposed to do … and then it came to him, a torrent of thought on a wave of warmth, like the alcohol was kicking in. yes, of course, it made perfect sense. In a sort of distant way, he recognized that he would never do such a thing in a million years … and yet, yes, he would. This was for the betterment of everyone, and sometimes sacrifices had to be made.

He had lived a dead end life, and it was highly unlikely things would ever change. He was plain old Anthony Johnson - even his name was a spectacularly bland dead end - a single man going into his late thirties, having never fallen in love with any woman, with no future prospects or hopes that he might any time in the future, stuck as a janitor in a theater, cleaning up other people's abandoned cups and spilled Milk Duds. He was an anonymous man living an anonymous life, not even passionate enough to be called desperate, plodding on day after day because he didn't know what else to do. Was this all life was? Was he going to die unremarked and unremembered, as if he'd never lived at all? He could have sworn he deserved better than this,

And now he was going to get it. Even if he had to die for a purpose, at least his death would have a purpose where his life never did.

He got up early the next day - well, relatively, for having stayed up so late - and drove out to Fresno, where his Uncle Byrne lived. He always went to Vegas on the weekends, and even though it was only Friday, he was already gone. He had a double wide trailer in a loose park, the kind where they were spread out decently and few people even pretended to have yards - they lived in fucking trailers, so who was shitting whom exactly?

It was possible Byrne could have afforded better at one point. He was injured on his job as a ship fitter (lost three fingers on his left hand), and got a generous cash settlement along with worker's comp, so he retired early. But Byrne, being the compulsive sort, took to gambling and never looked back, emptying his bank account within three months. His money still ebbed and flowed based on when his social security check came in, and how well he was doing at the blackjack table. Family rumors said he was currently eight thousand dollars in debt.

Tony knew where Byrne kept his spare key, and let himself in. The small trailer was depressing, with its general uncleanly state and the reek of dirty laundry the only signs that someone lived here. It was haphazardly furnished, and Byrne hadn't left his air conditioner on, so it was already about a hundred degrees inside the little tin box, making the smell worse. The good part, though, was there just weren't that many places to hide weapons.

He found what he wanted wedged beneath his bed, oiled and loaded and ready to go, even though it had a

small coating of dust on it. Was it an Uzi? It was some kind of automatic weapon; he really didn't know his guns that well. But he knew Byrne had stashed a few around his house and in his beaten old Cadillac, claiming he needed protection from "mobsters" and others who might be after his gambling winnings … whenever he won, which wasn't often. The metal was warm from simply being inside the trailer.

He locked up and left the god forsaken blast zone called Fresno, sure that Byrne would've never noticed it missing, even if he had been there. As it was, he'd probably be in Vegas until Sunday night, and miss everything. Still, maybe it was better that way.

By the time he got back to his place, it was almost time to leave for work. But he had a leisurely dinner, eschewing the frozen dinner in his ice encrusted freezer for a coconut cream pie he picked up at a local bakery. It was way too expensive, but really good, and very much worth it, the creamy whipped topping almost soothing, and virtually weightless as it slid down his throat. He finished up with a Corona for courage, and a couple of Prozac he'd gotten when he still had his office temp job and the health insurance that came with it. They diagnosed his sleeping problem as "depression" about a month before the agency closed down, and threw Prozac at him, but it had never helped. Sometimes he took it, and sometimes he didn't, but there seemed to be no difference either way. He took it today to fuck with his autopsy results.

He changed into his work gear, and shoved his spare clothes - and Uncle Byrne's "insurance" - in a battered Sierra Club backpack he picked up for fifty cents at the Goodwill. He took one last look at his cramped apartment, and realized for the first time how anonymous it was - just like Byrne's trailer home really. Sad forgotten men in sad forgotten lives; the ones who slip through the cracks. But not tonight; tonight he was finally going to matter.

By the time he hit work he felt good, although that lightheaded feeling he had acquired the night before, after listening to Tom Hank's warning, still lingered. It briefly occurred to him that maybe he was sick, but he quickly dismissed the thought. Pie, beer, and Prozac was probably a more potent combination than he ever imagined.

He went through his evening shift with little thought, a white noise like an air conditioner humming through his head. It was almost pleasant not to have any thoughts, to have a single minded purpose; it was like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, one he hadn't realized he had.

They wanted him to wait, so he did. Finally, after it was midnight, he felt like he could act.

The theater was down to a skeleton crew. After the three films currently showing ended, the theater would close, and the final cleaning would be done, preparing it for the next days' group of slobs. Aisles would be vacuumed, trash collected, popcorn machines wiped down, the projector booth locked up. He knew everyone who was working tonight, and while he didn't hate any of them, he didn't particularly like any of them either. Mostly they were kids who made him feel his age, save for Phil in the projection booth, who was older than him but not by much.

Of the films showing, one was a really bad horror movie (with a minimal crowd, mostly stoned teenagers or those on dates), the other a really bad action film (even fewer people in there), and the latest really bad gross out romantic comedy, which had the most people of all, and seemed like a natural. He'd sat through it once, wondering at what point the humor of repeated groin injuries seemed less amusing; he stopped thinking it was funny after the second to last Farrelly brothers movie. But damn if other producers and screenwriters didn't milk it for all it was worth.

He went into the theater and locked the doors, wedge broom handles inside the doors so even when they did unlock it from the outside, they'd have a hard time getting in. He walked up the entry aisle with his backpack slung over his shoulder as the sparse crowd laughed as the hero of the movie gaped at a woman's huge breasts and ran face first into a glass door. Oh yeah, that was fucking hilarious. How did they ever come up with this shit?

The seats were tiered, working up a sloped inclined, with the working theory being that that way, no one's view of the screen could ever be blocked by someone taller sitting in front of them. It was a good theory, but - from what he had seen - fundamentally untrue. The slope needed to me much greater for that to actually work. But the bottom seven rows were empty, so no one noticed him as he stood beneath the screen, and took the Uzi out of his backpack.

Eyes adjusted to the dimness and the backwash of moving light from the screen, he could see them now. This was what they were trying to warn him about.

They weren't human.

In the jittering, uncertain light, he could see the people had glowing red eyes that pierced the gloom like lasers, and unhinged, razor filled jaws large enough to swallow a cantaloupe. They fed on degradation and misery, picking their teeth with bones as they laughed over steaming cartons of slimy entrails. They were killing humanity and replacing them, and no one ever noticed.

Except him, right now. He knew what he had to do, and he had to do it fast. There would be more - there would always be more - but he had to strike the first blow for humanity, and start the war to end them all. They might not know it now, but soon humanity would know that Anthony Johnson was a hero.

And with that final thought, he raised the gun, and opened fire.

2

He woke up in an alley beside a Dumpster, recently emptied but still reeking of fermented garbage and alcohol infused puke. It was a smell that briefly reminded him of hell, but with less brimstone.

But, as soon as he sat up and opened his eyes, he knew he was back in Los Angeles. Shit.

Or maybe not. He really didn't know. He was extremely disoriented, and not sure what he was doing last. What had he been doing ..?

It took a moment, but he finally got it. There was some big fight, and he was ... elsewhere? Taken elsewhere. And then ... Peter Cook tried to kill him? No, no - it was a Senior Partner who looked unfortunately like Peter Cook, and he felt a sudden pain in his chest, the remembrance of him punching through his chest and ripping his heart out with his bare hand.

Angel reflexively reached for his chest, pulled open his shirt and looked, but there was no hole, no scar, nothing. He still had his heart? If it was beating he'd know for sure, but it wasn't. Still, the skin and muscle felt solid and didn't hurt, so he had to assume he had every organ he started with.

The memories had a very vague quality to them, like a fever dream. Bob was there, wasn't he? Yes, he was. He told him ... something; for some reason, he could hear his voice but not the words he said, and then everything faded out to blue ...

And here he was. Weird. It felt like there was a missing piece, a gap, but then there always was after you were in one dimension, and then another. It was like your mind tried to adjust to the rhythm of a new place, and it took it a couple of false starts before it could synch up.

He used the wall behind him to help him stand up, and he looked around to see if he could recognize the place. Sadly it was just an alley, one like a half million within the Los Angeles area. Was this the one he started out in? Was he dropped off?

He felt perfectly fine, just a little out of sorts. Still, Angel felt like he staggered to the mouth of the alley, and leaned against the wall as he looked around and tried to orient himself. He was roughly certain he was about two blocks West of the Wolfram and Hart building, and decided to head there to see if they were back.

As he walked down the nighttime streets, the sky above too polluted with light to show him any stars, he felt like he didn't belong even more strongly than the first time. He wasn't supposed to be here, but he wasn't sure where he was supposed to be. It was like a rhetorical question that could never have a satisfying answer.

Where was Spike and Illyria? Were they back too, just in separate places? Or were they still there, still in that hell dimension? Dead? Maybe Bob would know. He'd have to know, wouldn't he? Wesley had said something about the rumor of a "fallen" Power, one exiled to Earth for some kind of crime, and figured Bob was it. Of course they all suspected him of being a god, but he couldn't quite believe it. He supposed this was proof he couldn't deny anymore. Damn it - he _really _wanted to deny it.

He figured he'd head towards the Way Station, but take the long way - which, from here, was actually a long way away - so he could see if Wolfram and hart had moved back in. How long had he been gone? He wondered if there was any way to tell.

It was a warm night, stuffy, and familiar enough to him now that it gave him a pang of homesickness. He really hadn't expected to ever walk these streets again, see the same buildings or sky. It was a strangely bittersweet experience, and he almost lost track of where he was. It was oddly quiet, at least for downtown L.A., and that made him instantly suspicious.

The Wolfram and Hart location was now a scorched patch of lawn with a big "For sale" sign on it, where the Wolfram and Hart sign used to be. It was gratifying to see, but he also knew it just meant they relocated to somewhere else in California. He kicked over one of their many sand castles, but it was an extremely hollow victory; they'd been at this for a very long time, and they knew never to consolidate all their forces in a single area (or dimension). They could already be running the town again, from Santa Monica or Modesto. (Okay, maybe not Modesto…) All his friends died just so they could relocate?

He wanted to believe it was for much more than that. He had to, or he wouldn't be able to live with himself.

He started to hear traffic noises, screeching tires, car horns, angry epithets in at least three different languages, and the sheer normalcy of it made him relax before he even realized he had been tense. It seemed to be an unwritten law that cities shouldn't be quiet, and if they ever were, something horrible had happened.

Angel wandered back to the Hyperion, mainly out of curiosity, and the desire to ground himself, to make sure this was indeed the Los Angeles of his reality. The Hyperion was there, all right, but there was something wrong.

The outer fence was knocked down on one side, and there was a huge, gaping hole in the side of the front lobby. Surely those were there before the "condemned by the city" signs went up, a lurid yellow now marred by the blue and red spray paint splashes of graffiti.

He stepped carefully over the fallen fence, the rubble, and went inside the hotel, which now had the intangible chill of a place long forgotten and abandoned. Even the squatters, the homeless and the runaways that clogged Los Angeles bus stations, hadn't settled in here, which seemed to indicate how bad the "vibes" were.

Or maybe it was this huge rut in the floor. It started from outside, by the broken fence, and came in, ending only where most of the first level staircase had collapsed. It was huge, about a foot and half deep and at least six feet across in width, and it had a slight but tangible acrid smell, like lye soaked leather.

It was vaguely familiar, a scent of demon blood, but he couldn't quite place it. What the hell had happened here?

"Uh, yeah, sorry about the redecoratin'," a voice said behind him, making him jump. He spun around quickly on his heels, ready to fight, wondering how anyone could sneak up on him.

But as soon as he saw who it was, he knew. Logan was standing in the big gaping hole in the outside wall, sheepishly pushing some rubble with the toe of his boot, hands in the pocket of his denim jacket. "Had a bit of a fight with a big snake thing. I guess it liked to play with its food."

Just seeing a familiar and friendly (more or less) face was so cheering Angel was suddenly possessed by a sudden urge to hug him, which he quickly let pass. "What kind of demon was it?" he finally asked, as if he hadn't been away at all, just off on holiday.

Logan shrugged. "Big snake thing. I didn't ask, and it didn't tell." He gave him a curious look. "You were gonna hug me, weren't you?"

He scoffed, remaining nonchalant. "I'm not a huggy person."

Logan raised an eyebrow skeptically at that, but after a moment, he went on. "So how're you doin'?"

Wasn't this fun? A couple of undemonstrative men trying to pretend they didn't care when they did. But how old were they collectively, maybe four hundred years old? Old men just didn't change their ways. "I'm … confused. How long have I been gone?"

He had to think about that for a moment. "A few months. Not much has changed."

"It rarely does." Angel took one last look around the destroyed lobby, and sighed. He had some good times here, and some very bad ones. It was probably appropriate to let this place finally die, to let the memories fade away into nothingness, to let it all get paved over and replaced by a strip mall. Of course, where was he going to live now? He could worry about that later, before the sun came up. "So what are you doing in L.A.? Bored of New York?"

Logan didn't quite shrug, but he moved his head to the side like an aborted nod. "Naw. Bob told me you might need some help, so here I am."

"What kind of help?"

Now here was a shrug. "He didn't say. He was being his usual cryptic, assholic self."

Damn it. But the fact that he pushed Logan here wasn't good. It was indicative that something bad was going to happen, or was happening now, he just didn't know it yet. So the Powers That Be brought him back at this time for an ulterior motive? What an absolute shock. He'd have to remember to pencil in a heart attack later. "Where is Bob? At the bar?"

He shook his head, grimacing at the name. "He said he had something he had to take care of elsewhere. I bet he's just slacking or going to a wedding or something."

"Oh god. He's not getting married again, is he?" Actually, Bob was probably just avoiding him. Which figured: when he needed to talk to him, he was nowhere to be found. When he didn't want to talk to him, he was forever in his face.

"Not that I know of." Logan suddenly got a slightly panicky look on his face. "Holy shit, I didn't even think of that."

Before any further wild speculation about what Bob was really doing could commence, there was a huge crash on the neighboring street. It was metal slamming into metal, glass shattering concussively, followed in due course by a shorted car horn that just kept going off, one long, annoying sound that was the urban equivalent of fingernails on a blackboard.

Logan winced, reminding Angel that while it was offensive enough to his ears, Logan had even better than vampire hearing, but still he just shook his head and went back outside to see what the hell happened. Angel followed, driven by the same morbid curiosity.

They had to go up to the intersection to see it, but once you were there it was hard to miss. An SUV had been t-boned and turned over, laying crumpled on its side in the middle of the street, broken glass making a sparkling outline as the punctured radiator hissed, shooting steam out into the night like a geyser. Angel thought he smelled blood, but it was hard to judge among the competing pungent smells of antifreeze and gasoline.

Angel started out into the street, to see if there were any survivors inside (unlikely, but still possible), when Logan grabbed his arm to stop him. "What?" he wondered, slightly annoyed. While it was good to see at least one person he used to know, one friend he hadn't killed, he wasn't crazy about him getting in his way.

"What's wrong with this picture?" Logan prompted, nodding at the mangled wreck.

He was in no mood for games, but he indulged him by looking at it once more, and just as he yanked his arm out of his grasp, he suddenly realized what Logan was getting at. "The thing that hit him - where is it?" This was a serious high speed collision; it was highly unlikely someone could drive away from this unscathed. Assuming it was a car.

Oh shit.

And that's when they heard the noise behind them.


	2. Part 2

Angel hadn't even completed his turn before something slammed into his back, so hard he thought he was hit by a car. He flew across the street and straight into a mailbox, tasting and hearing the metal before he blacked out for several seconds, and woke up on the pavement, tasting blood, his ears ringing - or maybe that was just the mailbox, which had been ripped free of two of its four bolts in the asphalt and now tilted at a bizarre angle.

Looking back across the street, at the steaming wreckage of the truck, he saw what had hit him. Them. (Where was Logan?) It was exactly what he feared in the first place - a Berserker, only … not. Berserkers were as black as oil, and reeked of burning rubber; you could smell one long before you saw it. But this one was an odd, mottled brown, its carapace strangely dull and thin looking. It towered a good eight and a half feet, though, and its hands seemed actually to scale, which was exceptionally odd for a Berserker - and its teeth were smaller, although there remained the requisite thousand and a half in its wide, distended mouth. Its eyes were an odd pink, though, making him wonder if this was some kind of albino Berserker. A hybrid? He didn't think Berserkers could - or would - breed with any other sub-species, but just about anything was possible, especially in Los Angeles. But that lack of smell was curious.

It sounded like it was roaring, but he knew it was talking; the thing was, it was hard to understand. It was saying something like, "-not right; this isn't right -" and standing in the middle of the street, looking around like it wanted something to eat. Since it ate all lesser beings, and every being was supposedly lesser to it, this wasn't something he could allow to continue.

Angel climbed to his feet, garnering its attention, but it just stared at him. "What isn't right?" he asked, wondering what that was supposed to mean. Feeling his own teeth cut his lower lip, he realized the impact had made him morph into vamp face involuntarily. Why did it feel so weird? He was hardly a vampire virgin.

It growled, a deep sound like gravel in an industrial blender, and started stalking towards him, head low and clawed hands held far apart. It said something like "Your fault, parasite," but it was perfectly unclear if his translation was incorrect. This Berserker obviously wasn't from around here - its dialect was barely translatable.

Angel didn't even see Logan before he was in mid air.

He had apparently been thrown in an alley between two long condemned buildings (not unlike the Hyperion, only more intact), and came running out, jumping up on the frame of the ruined SUV to launch himself at the back of the Berserker, claws flashing in mid air as he landed on the Berserker, caught in mid turn, grabbing it around what passed for its neck with one arm. He drove his free claws deep into the back of its head, where spine and skull met, the only weak spot on a Berserker, and the only way to actually kill one. It screeched and shook Logan off like he was a flea, sending him flying into the street, but Logan was prepared for it this time and managed to roll with it. The Berserker just stood still for a moment, wavering on its feet, then collapsed to the ground, hard enough to crack the pavement. Logan picked himself up like this no big deal. He had fresh blood on his face, but the cuts they must have come from were already healed.

"Should I be worried that you have Berserker slaying down to a science?"

Logan just shrugged, working his head to the side like he was getting the kinks out of his neck. "They're overrated. Buncha bitches, the lot of 'em."

Only Logan would say that about Berserkers. "They're killing machines!"

"Yeah, well, so am I. That's no excuse."

Angel just glared at him, not sure what that was supposed to mean. Self-pity or resignation? "You're not a machine."

"Yeah, well, close enough," he replied curtly, clearly not wanting to discuss it. He nodded at the Berserker corpse. "Why is this one brown? I thought they were all black and smelled like a tire fire."

"They are, as far as I know." He wished Logan hadn't killed it before he could question it further, but truth be told, it was unlikely to answer him. He had no idea if it even understood him anymore than he understood it, and Berserkers just weren't known as great communicators anyways.

"Do you know what it was sayin'?"

It was Angel's turn to shrug and shake his head. "It was saying something about this being all wrong, but I could barely understand it. It was speaking some kind of Berserker dialect I've never heard before."

"Huh. So it comes out of nowhere, with no smell and a new color, and doesn't seem to know where it is. That's weird."

"Tell me about it."

They stood over the body, trying to puzzle it out in their heads, but it didn't make sense. Yes, L.A. had a tendency to collect misfits, but it would be impossible to hide a strange Berserker - it would have been the talk of the demon community. Of course, he'd been gone for a few months, so maybe it had been. His first impulse was to ask Wesley about odd Berserkers, but with a sick twinge in his stomach, he knew he could never ask him a damn thing ever again.

"So what do we do with the body?" Logan asked after a while.

Oh, great. Back in L.A. for ten minutes, and already he was trying to figure out how you hid an eight foot demon corpse. Could the night get any better?

3

When the note appeared on his kitchen table, with the cryptic sentence '_He's back'_, he knew instantly whom this was about.

There was more on the other side, but reading it was superfluous. Yes, it was exactly whom he thought it was, back where he suspected. How was he supposed to feel about it? He honestly wasn't sure.

He sat at the table, sipping his tea, looking out at the profuse riot of greenery that was his back garden. As of late, he'd considered rearranging it with dynamite. When he first retired, it was such bliss to have nothing but time to himself, without having to worry about something popping up and killing him and his loved ones. But eventually the question _'What loved ones?' _popped up, and he began thinking more and more about all the lost opportunities, the lost lives, the sacrifices made for what seemed to be a good cause, but now didn't keep him very warm at night.

In a strange way, it was a kind of grieving process. First there was the anger, then the guilt, then the acceptance, but it was a bitter kind of acceptance. No, he never expected glory or thanks for what was in point of fact a secret war, one most people were better off not knowing about, but all his victories now tasted like ashes in his mouth, and he felt washed up and useless. He thought his retirement would be a well deserved rest, but he apparently wasn't ready to rest, and really not cut out for it anyways, even though he had always dreamed about it. After six months, he was slowly, quietly going mad.

He did the British tourist thing, taking trips to Ibiza and Madagascar, Egypt and India, and enjoying them all for what they were, but no more than that. He would return home, feeling hollow and just a little bit worthless. Drinking didn't fill the void, but it did numb it for a while. Only when the whole London thing came up did he realize what he was missing.

When Ruby first called him, he didn't want to get involved, but grudgingly he did, because she was one of the few acquaintances he had who didn't look down their nose at him. Then, when he was in the thick of things, he felt a strange kind of calm and peace he hadn't felt in what seemed like years. Yes, he was in the middle of the thing, amidst violence and madness, and yet he felt strangely like he was home. He supposed that was a sign he needed some sort of psychiatric help.

But now that he tried to settle back into his life of quiet desperation, he found he couldn't. Yes, he had retired, but the war still raged; Ned made that clear. And now he felt like he was wasting both himself and the future, letting down his side. Yes, the battle was honestly for the young, but he had experience and expertise that the young just couldn't have. He wasn't claiming he was some awesome weapon, an overwhelming force for good, but he _could_ be of some use. And now that he knew the war continued to rage (and hadn't it always? He just pretended it didn't, like some craven coward …), he could no longer feign ignorance. His conscience didn't allow him to sit on his hands and do nothing, not while he was alive and able to do something about it.

There was absolutely no getting around it. He couldn't pretend to be a normal person, because he wasn't. He was trained all his life - or indoctrinated, depending on the mood he was in - to fight in this war, and even though he tried to give it, and even wanted to give it up, he had now discovered he couldn't. He must have passed the point of no return a long time ago, and never noticed it. Not until he had time to reflect on his past and realize that while he could try and leave it, it wouldn't leave him. And never give him a moment's peace, even if he did try.

Damn them. He wanted to curse his family, the entire council, every survivor, all of the enemy … but it wasn't that simple. None of it was; life wasn't. You wanted things simple, you wanted them black and white, but that was a child's wish, and it was embarrassing for an adult to even think about. Not all demons were bad, and not all Humans were good. He knew demons he would trust over Humans any day of the week. Look at Ruby - she was technically a Human, but that bite relegated her to werewolf status, and made her something of an embarrassment to the council, because werewolves couldn't control their bestial nature. She was still a damn good Watcher, and the fact that she had a werewolf's sense of smell helped her more than it hurt. It also put the vampires off, as werewolf tainted blood apparently left a "bitter aftertaste", if Spike's word could be trusted at all. And then there was Ned, all Human, but apparently as mad as a hatter.

Now this note was a breaking point. He could go one way or another, use it as an opportunity, or as a reason to stop even entertaining the idea. But London had already made up his mind for him.

Giles got up from the kitchen table, and wondered what he should pack.

4

Considering the time of night, Logan didn't call Rags at the church, but where he figured he'd actually be, if not on the town with Thrak, subjecting people to lethal karaoke. He got it right; Rags was drinking at the Way Station.

When Lau handed the phone to him, he heard, in spite of the System of a Down playing in the background, Rags groan wearily - he didn't want to deal with him. He tried to make that clear, but Logan shut him up by saying a few choice words.

There was a long pause, and then Rags exclaimed, as much annoyed as scared, "What d'ya mean there's a bloody Berserker demon!"

Maybe he was wrong, but it sounded like the bar shared a collective gasp, quieting the music in the background. Boy, was there no one who liked them? No wondered they were so pissed off all the time. He almost felt sorry for them.

He assured Rags he was dead, and they needed him to come down and help them teleport it off the street. He seemed a bit more eager to help them, but maybe because the heavy lifting was done, and the Berserker was already dead.

Angel was still looking around, seemingly a bit dazed. Bob had said he'd be out of sorts for a while, having returned to this dimension after being away for so long, but it wasn't only babysitting that he wanted him for. Of course, Bob wouldn't say what he wanted him to help him with beyond that, but Logan just assumed it wasn't good.

He really didn't want to do this right now. But he owed Angel at least one, and it was the very least he could do.

Rags whoomped into existence beside him once he hung up the pay phone receiver, and the noise made Angel jump - he hadn't been expecting him to join them so soon. "Where th' fuck -" Rags began, then stopped when his yellow crystal eyes settled on Angel. "Oi, aren't you dead?"

Angel stared back impassively. "I'm still dead. I'm a vampire."

"Yeah, I know that, but ..." he sighed and shook his head, turning his seemingly sightless gaze back on the dead Berserker. "Wha' the fuck you do to it? Why's it turd colored?"

"This was the way we found it."

"Technically it found us," Angel corrected.

Logan just shrugged. "Whatever."

Rags studied it, but at a safe distance, as if he didn't believe it was actually dead. After a moment, he shook his head, making his shaggy dirty blonde hair shake. "This isn't right."

Logan rolled his eyes and sighed. This was going to be a long night. "Thank you, Sherlock, we had no idea. Look, can you just teleport it into the sewers or something? Get it off the street before the cops arrive?"

Rags nodded, but never looked away from the body. "Yeah, I guess. So you are the Berserker Slayer people talk about, huh?"

"Guess so."

He scoffed humorously. "Wouldn't wanna be in yer shoes, mate, not when the queen 'ears about you."

He assumed he meant the Berserker queen, which he had heard about, the big cheese grand poobah of the race. He wasn't exactly shaking in his boots - if he could kill the drones, he could kill the queen. There couldn't be that big of a physiological difference.

Rags threw some glitter around, did his inexplicable vocalizing, and made the thing disappear. He and Angel stood on the sidewalk, watching.

"He could probably turn this into a nightclub act," Angel deadpanned.

"Probably. But he'd have to stay sober to sign a contract, and that might be too much for him."

"Sobriety's overrated."

Once he was done, he walked back to them, sirens starting to dopple in the distance. "What was it doing 'ere anyways? a 'it? Is that why they're spam in a can?"

He was referring rather tactlessly to the dead people in the SUV. There were two of them, but you could only tell that pretty much by scent; it was just a bloody mess inside the vehicle. The best guess was the SUV rammed the thing, either by accident or trying foolishly to kill it with a sideswipe (Berserkers were too strong to be run down by a car, and their carapace could absorb a great deal of impact), or the Berserker ran into them, kicking the SUV like a football and pulping the people inside by sheer force before the thing even toppled on its side. He could reach into the soupy mess of them and try to recover some i.d. but it seemed insensitive.

"We don't know," Logan admitted. "It didn't really talk."

Rags nodded. "It wouldn't." He paused briefly. "Should we 'ave a drink?"

"Fuck yeah."

He got out some more glitter and mumbled something before grabbing them each by an arm, and them with a reverse whoomp and a sudden jolt, they were in the Way Station.

The jukebox was still on, but now playing the mellower sounds of The Shins, and Lau looked at them impassively from behind the bar, the Samoan still refusing to be impressed by anything. The bar was curiously empty, though, and even Rags seemed to notice. "Where is everybody?" he asked Lau.

"I think saying Berserker in a demon bar is the equivalent of shouting "fire" in a crowded theater," Angel noted.

Rags shrugged, not looking the least bit guilty. "I just said it on th' phone."

There was the sound of a door closing, and someone came out of one of the bathrooms located in the hall. "Rags, you -" The man paused, and it was easy to see why. It was Brendan. "Logan, you're awake!" He exclaimed, and suddenly lunged at him and gave him a bear hug. Logan's first impulse was to turn and use his own momentum to toss him across the room, but he squelched it, and patted the kid on the back. He was a good kid, and if he was a bit more huggy than he was, he couldn't hold it against him.

"And you're back in L.A. - I didn't know that."

"Yeah, I came back with Rags, 'cause I felt kinda useless at the mansion after we rescued Saddiq." He finally stopped hugging him, and did a double take as he looked at Angel. "Aren't you dead?"

Angel sighed wearily, and Brendan added, "Well, you know, beyond the usual way."

"I was just … gone for a while. I didn't die. Again." He then got a funny look on his face, and turned back towards him. "You were asleep?"

"No, comatose. It's a long story."

Brendan chimed in, "He let Rogue just about drain all the life force out of him to save her from the Organization. And then she was able to use his knowledge to rescue Saddiq."

He stared at him, acutely aware of why he preferred to work alone. "Okay, apparently it's not that long."

They all took a seat at the bar and had drinks - he had a beer, Rags had another Long Island iced tea, Lau just gave Angel a cup of blood (goat, if he was judging the smell right) without being asked, and he set Brendan up with a rum and diet coke (he figured the kid could have one drink, but then he'd put a stop to it so he didn't get sloppy drunk) - and discussed why there might be a weird Berserker. Angel brought up the "hybrid" theory, but Rags dismissed that summarily. "Only Ressiks are fuck 'em or eat 'em types; Berserkers just eat 'em. 'm not sure they 'ave the proper equipment to do much else."

This led to a conversation on a trusted demon expert who might know something about that, but those pickings were slim. Rags insisted he knew a good Turbet demon who "passed" and taught economics at UCLA, but Angel just scoffed and explained Turbets were unable to distinguish between reality and fantasy, and were naturally predisposed to vivid hallucinations, especially since plain old table sugar gave them a high akin to acid. Not only did that not sound promising, but it explained modern economic theory in its entirety.

It then occurred to Logan that he had no idea where Angel was going to stay now - his old apartment was part of Wolfram and Hart's network, right? They probably changed the locks on him. And the Hyperion was toast. He asked Angel if he had a place to go, and he shrugged and tried to change the subject, but he didn't let him. Rags offered to let him "crash" at his place, but Angel seemed less than enthused, especially after he pointed out he lived above a taco stand. Brendan lived in a two room apartment above the Church of the Stone Temple, but offered Angel his couch. He was polite about it, but again, didn't seem to eager to accept.

Logan asked Lau, "Bob has a lot of pull in this city. Surely he's gotta have pull at a hotel around here." That was one good thing about L.A. - Bob's name got things done. He was like royalty or something; just mentioning his name could open doors previously sealed shut.

The big man said nothing, just pulled out what looked like a little black book and thumbed through it. After a moment, he laid it down flat in front of him, pointed to an entry, and then put the phone on the bar. Bob's little book of connections?

He punched in the phone number for what was called the "Sea Crest Hotel" - he'd never heard of it, but he really didn't know Los Angeles all that well.

The phone was answered on the third ring, by a snooty sounding guy. Once he inquired about rooms, he was informed haughtily that all the rooms were booked, so then he dropped the bombshell that he was calling on behalf of Bob. There was a dramatic pause, then he asked if he meant "that" Bob. As soon as he confirmed that, a room miraculously was available. Amazing how that worked.

He then hung up and told Angel he was good until he could find a more permanent place to stay, but he looked a little queasy. Was it staying in a hotel or possibly being beholden to Bob that made him hesitant?

"Where the 'ell's the Sea Crest?" Rags wondered. "Never 'eard of it." He was now on his second drink since they got here.

"Oh, it's out towards Venice," Brendan said. "I think I saw it once when I was cleaning out a nest of - a nest, a nest of spiders."

Did he actually think_ that _was going to work? Angel looked at him sharply. "You've been hunting vampires? By yourself?"

Brendan shook his head and looked away, probably trying to formulate a plausible lie, when Rags, who was too drunk to catch the tense vibe, interjected, "I tell 'im all the time not to, it's too dangerous, but kids never bloody listen, do they?"

Angel looked livid. "Are you insane? Do you _want_ to die?"

Now Brendan was getting defensive. "Hey, I can take care of myself, okay? It's not like I'm Human." As if to remind him of that fact, he let his demon side emerge, becoming blue-green and spiky in the blink of an eye.

That was the wrong thing to do. Logan watched Angel tense, hand curling into a fist on the surface of the bar. Did he hate Brachen demons or something? "You could be dead very fast. I don't care how good a fighter you are, all you need to do is run into a very large group, or an experienced vampire, and you're toast, half Brachen or not." He suddenly whirled to face him. "How the hell could you allow this, Logan? I thought you knew better."

He raised an eyebrow at that, and at the level of Angel's anger. This really pushed a button, didn't it? Why? Because all of his other friends were dead? "I'm not his father. It's his life, and if he wants to toss it away, it's his decision."

"Hey," Brendan snapped. "I'm not 'tossing it away'. I can fight. Do you know how many I've dusted?"

"I know you can fight," Logan replied. "And I know most vamps are dumber than a ham sandwich, but it still ain't the smartest thing in the world to do."

"And you would know about that, wouldn't you?"

"Oi!" Rags suddenly shouted, gaining all their attention. "Angel, yer right it's stupid, but Logan, yer right it's 'is choice. Yes, Brendan, you can fight - you wouldn't be alive if you couldn't - but maybe now's th' time to leave it to professionals, okay? Okay then. Let us finish drinkin' in peace."

The three of them exchanged leery glances. Apparently the only thing that made Rags angry was arguing while he was trying to drink. He supposed that he could understand that.

* * *

It should have been an uneventful trip. But like most things, it didn't come out that way. Why did he think something like this would be any different?

Rags was apparently too drunk to teleport them to the Sea Crest, and they ended up on a boardwalk somewhere south of the hotel. Brendan knew where they were , though, and they started walking. According to him, it was only a couple of blocks away.

They'd gone maybe a block when the oppressive, all encompassing silence unnerved Logan mightily. The street seemed totally deserted, even the noise of cars on neighboring streets seemed oddly muted, like there was an invisible bubble covering this part of the city. He really didn't like this, not one bit.

Rags wasn't so drunk that it didn't get to him. "Where is ever'body?" he wondered, looking around and almost losing his balance as a consequence.

"Yeah, this is weird," Brendan concurred. "There's a punk club around here. This place is usually buzzing 'til five in the morning."

Suddenly Logan got hit with a smell so sudden and so powerful he had to stop. It was a scent reeking of rotted meat and fetid sewage, a stench unholy and bloody, decomposed flesh roasting in a pressure cooker. He shook his head to try and clear it from his nostrils, swallowing back bile.

"What is it?" Angel asked, sounding tense, looking around warily.

"I dunno," he admitted, resting his hands on his knees, attempting to breathe through his mouth. (A bad move - now he could taste it. Vomit would be an improvement.) "I think we'd better get out of here. There's something -"

He didn't even have time to finish the sentence. The manhole covers in the street suddenly exploded, and out through the sewer access came tentacles, thick as tree trunks and reaching twenty feet up into the sky. They were a mottled blue-black and bloated, like a decomposing corpse.

"What the fuck is that?" Brendan exclaimed, just before one of the tentacles grabbed him and dragged him into the sewer.


	3. Part 3

"Hold on, kid," Logan shouted, popping his claws and diving after the nearest tentacle. It could have been an Old One, except it didn't smell right, and none of them were insane yet - well, as far as he could tell.

He sliced in deep to the tentacle, which was slightly resistant to his claws, like its tendons were laced with adamantium or something. There was a sound like a table saw - was that its scream? - and bluish-black blood didn't spurt so much as ooze, like it was more syrup than water. He looked up, but not in time, as a second tentacle slammed into him with a force akin to a semi-truck (and if anyone should know that, it was him), and he went flying. He tried to catch himself, but couldn't, and ended up slamming shoulder first into a brick wall. Damn, it probably was a good thing he did have metal bonded bones.

He was too aching and dazed to land on his feet, so he hit the asphalt like a ton of iron. He tasted blood, but managed not to lose consciousness. From where he was sprawled on the pavement, he could see Angel struggling with metal bars on a window, kicking the base of it until he was able to wrest away a single black iron bar. He avoided the tentacles and simply jumped down the nearest open manhole. Damn it, he should have thought of that.

Rags staggered over to him as Logan pushed himself up to his knees. "So, does this live 'ere?"

Logan looked up at him, spitting out a mouthful of blood. "What? Do you know what this is?"

He shook his head, but briefly, as it almost made him fall over. "Naw. I jus' assumed it was a local."

Logan almost asked if there were a lot of sewer monsters in L.A., but then reconsidered, as that was probably one of those things you were better off not knowing.

That table saw noise ratcheted up higher to painful levels, ones that sounded like a dentist drill was trying to bore into your brain, and the tentacles thrashed wildly, finally withdrawing into the sewer. Logan stumbled to his feet and went to the nearest sewer opening, intending to get in there and join the fight, but suddenly a blue-black splattered hand appeared grasping the edge of the opening. It was Brendan.

Logan grabbed his hand and pulled him up, back up onto the street. He was well spattered in the beast's blood (which smelled quite oddly like soy ink), and in his spiky demon façade, breathing hard. "Fuck, what the hell _was_ that?" he asked, panting.

Logan shook his head, not sure what to tell him, and suddenly a metal bar came flying out of the manhole. After a moment, a blood splattered Angel came climbing out. "It's retreated for now," he said, before he was even half way out of the sewer. "But we've got a problem."

"You just figured that out?" Logan sniped.

"That was a th'Ulaban, a scavenger demon."

Angel was now standing on the street before him, and Logan shrugged, holding his hands apart. "Yeah, and?"

Angel wiped some th'Ulaban blood off his forehead with his arm. "They're not native to this dimension. They live in hell dimensions, feeding off the … remains, the pieces of others. They have no intelligence at all, they're bottom feeders, creatures of pure instinct. There's no way one could have come here on its own, and there's no reason why anyone would go to the trouble of transporting one here."

"Hey," Brendan exclaimed. "Are you saying it thought I was a corpse?"

Angel shook his head. "Did you see how clean those sewer tunnels were? It's probably starving; it'll hunt if its forced to."

"Why didn't you kill it?" Logan asked.

Angel glared at him, like that was the stupidest question he'd ever heard. "I'm not sure they can be killed. I've never heard of it."

"Everything can be killed," he insisted, before grudgingly admitting, "Well, almost everything."

Brendan looked at Rags, who was still standing on the sidewalk, looking like he was waiting for a bus, and asked, "Could you send it back home?"

Rags scratched his head, and seemed to list slightly. "Other dimension? Naw, not without 'elp. "

"So what do we do now?" Brendan wondered.

Angel and Logan exchanged questioning glances, aware that they were both stumped. After a moment, Logan said, "We get Angel to the hotel. It'll be sunup soon, and we need to beat it. Will that thing come out in sunlight?"

Angel had to think about it a moment, but shook his head. "I doubt it. It probably has no idea what a sun is, and avoids it out of fear. "

"Okay, then we have time to brainstorm until tonight."

"Brainstorm with whom?" Brendan asked pointedly.

Logan sighed, shooting him an evil look, but the kid was right. Still, he had some people he could turn to for help - if he was willing to swallow what little dignity he had left. Shit. "I have some contacts I can hit. If they don't know what to do, they'll know someone who can help me."

"Great, I'll come with you," Brendan volunteered.

"No you won't. You smell like demon blood."

He looked down at himself, seemingly noticing how blood covered he was for the first time. "I can shower," he claimed, but something in his voice indicated he knew it was a lost cause.

And he was honestly glad. Because he really didn't want Brendan to see where he was going after this.

5

The hotel actually turned out to be nice. It had an old fashioned, blocky look about it, but inside the lobby was airy and spacious, and most of the rooms had water views, although Angel couldn't enjoy it before sunset. Even Angel had to grudgingly admit it was nice, and the old fashion styling of the place seemed to appeal to him, although he wouldn't admit it in mixed company. Funny old guy.

Logan had Rags call Thrak from the lobby, and eventually his cab screeched up to the front of the hotel. Although he had many reservations about putting the kid in a car that Thrak was driving, he did, entrusting

him to get the drunken Rags back home in one piece. Brendan wasn't too worry - he'd ridden with Thrak before, apparently - but he was disappointed he couldn't come with him. Logan, conversely, was glad he wasn't.

He had time to kill, so he walked down to the beachfront and enjoyed the silence for a little while. He figured this might be his last chance for some quality alone time for a while, so he might as well appreciate it. He sat on the sand and watched the sky turn light, the burgeoning sun turning the water to molten gold. This almost explained why people bothered to live in Los Angeles - almost.

Finally he got up and started walking, wishing the air was a bit fresher, but equally aware he shouldn't complain, because while the air might have stunk to him, it couldn't hurt him in the slightest. He was luckier than most. It was a long walk, but he felt he needed the exercise. Again, it wasn't like it could hurt him, and it wasn't like he hadn't done worse.

Even this early in the day, the crazies were out on Sunset, and he was half convinced that they never left. They staked out their little spot, and with the help of controlled substances, were crazy twenty four-seven, with the help from various controlled substances.

By the time he reached Mandrake's, Argenis was just opening the store, and he was glad, as that spared him from going inside. "Hey," he said casually.

Argenis looked over his shoulder curiously. He fit in with all the crazies in his shapeless saffron colored silk robe and matching turban, all hiding a bizarrely shapeless and sexless body, revealing a soft face that was neither male or female, but just enough of both to leave you scratching your head. Logan thought of him generally as a "he", but it was an arbitrary decision, and he knew he could just as well be wrong as right.

His colorless eyes, as wide as peach pits, studied him carefully. "Well hello sailor," Argenis finally said. "I thought you didn't call these parts home."

"I don't. Thought you might like to know Angel's back."

Argenis stopped messing with his lock box, and turned to face him completely. "Really? So not dead then? I mean, dead dead."

"No."

"Huh. Weird. I heard the Partners had a real mad on for him." He grimaced, thin and pale lips twisting like worms on a skillet. "Best not tell them. They'll probably suck us all into a black hole or something."

He didn't think Argenis was ever a friend of Angel's, just a contact. As a "fixer", he was pretty sure Argenis had no allegiance to anyone at all - his business didn't require him to pick a side. Or a gender, apparently. "Look, I need something to get rid of a th'Ulaban demon."

Argenis cocked his head to the side, like a curious parrot. "A what now?"

"A th'Ulaban . Apparently they're not native, they're a hell dimension scavenger, and there's a big ass one in the sewer. It's probably eaten some people and will eat several more unless we figure out how to neutralize it, get rid of it, anything. I figured you'd know if someone had that kind of knowledge."

"Hmm." After a moment, he nodded, and tried on a smile that was so phony he wondered if he was posing for a headshot. "You've come to the right place, sugar lumps. I'll see what I can find for you. Why don't you check back in with me in an hour? Hopefully I'll have a nibble by then."

Sugar lumps? No, he refused to even think about that for five seconds. He just nodded and turned away, crossing his arms tightly over his chest until the urge to punch him passed.

"Oh," Argenis called after him. "Tell Angel not to be a stranger."

He just nodded, not quite trusting himself to verbally respond. The urge to say, _"What could be stranger than you" _was just too great.

There was no place else for him to go but the Way Station. He knew he should go back to that cheap motel where he once beat up the crack addict for slapping around his girlfriend, but the prospect struck him as terribly dismal. He could technically stay at a better place, but why? He had no idea how long he'd be here, and all he really needed was an occasional pit stop to wash off blood and catch a few z's. There was no point in spending a hundred bucks a night for that privilege.

He was about two blocks from the Way Station when he realized someone was following him.

He had an idea back on Sunset that he'd picked up a tail, but it was easier there for him to get lost in the crowd. The crowd thinned out appreciably the closer you got to the Way Station - the neighborhood wasn't bad so much as it was south of bad; it was a whole new category of terrible. You could probably buy a lot here for a quarter, but no one did, because it'd never be worth that much - and while the guy was reasonably decent as a stalker went, there was no way he could be good enough not to be noticed by him.

Logan ducked into an alley and waited for the guy to follow. He left a good space cushion, the guy clearly was a pro of some sort, but finally he came up, and Logan grabbed him by the throat before he realized it was a trap. He threw the guy up against the wall, pinning him by his throat, and put his fist just underneath his eye. "If you know who I am," he growled. "You know what I can do. Why the hell are you followin' me?"

The guy was big, maybe six two, Chinese, with short but well coifed black hair and casual clothes that were, on inspection, too damn expensive. (LaCroix made t-shirts? Who knew?) Although he reflexively grabbed for the hand on his throat, he didn't try and pull it away, nor did he reach for his gun, an obvious bulge just behind his left hip. The guy was a pro. "Lotus wishes to see you," he squeaked, talking as best he could with a half closed windpipe.

What a baffling statement. He just stared at him for a moment. "Lotus? Who the fuck is Lotus?"

"Wing."

That's when it fell into place. Right, Wing's daughter, Lotus, the one with the bad attitude and killer sniper skills. So this guy was a pro after all - he was Triad.

Logan let him go, but only because he knew he could take him if the Triad wanted to make it a fight. "Why the hell does she want to see me?"

The guy rubbed his throat and coughed discreetly, but there wasn't a hint of anger in his eyes. He was a soldier, and even if he killed you, it never got personal. "I don't know. I was simply told to find you and tell you."

Curious, but pure Triad. Everything was on a need to know basis. "She have her office at the Chen building?" That was where Wing had an office, the one where he liked to conduct his "business". The soldier nodded. "Fine. Tell her, when I have the time, I'll drop by, but only when I'm ready. And if she puts any more tails on me, they'll be sent back to her in a cardboard box. Clear?"

Once again that impassive nod. He couldn't smell fear on this guy, couldn't sense a blip in his pulse - he just didn't care. None of this bothered him in the slightest. Frightening.

He let the guy go, waited to make sure he did in fact leave, and there was no one standing by to take his place, and then he continued on to the Way Station.

What the hell was that about? He had a deal with Wing, they both lived up to their end of the bargain, case closed. Why did Lotus want to see him? To make sure he didn't bother her father again? To offer him a job? To throw a hissy fit over damage done to one of their choppers or some of their personnel? There were too many holes, too many things that didn't make sense.

Much like their problem. They're attacked by some kind of weird albino Berserker, and then attacked by some kind of shit eating demon that shouldn't exist here. The only common thread was the fact that these things shouldn't exist. So what did that mean? Was Lotus deciding to bother him part of that, or just a coincidence?

The Way Station was dark inside, like night never left, and there were a few demons around, apparently over the Berserker scare or completely unaware of it. Lia was tending bar, which was always a mixed blessing.

Her cobalt eyes gave him a withering glance, which she followed up with a tart, "What d'you want?"

What a fucking ray of sunshine. "I want to see Bob."

"Tough titties."

Her hostility used to be amusing, but now it was kind of old. "And you work for tips?"

"Now now, you two are practically family now," Helga admonished, coming out of the back. She was dressed in a black bustier style tank top decorated with a pattern of small blue palm trees, and a pair of khaki cargo shorts that were big enough that they could have been Bob's. She looked good, much better than she had a right to this early in the day. Of course, knowing her, she wasn't just up but still up - she was a night owl.

"Don't you even bloody joke," Lia snapped.

He was so glad to see her, a friendly face, he couldn't help but smile as she walked into his outstretched arms and gave him a hug. "Good to see you, tiger. How are you feeling?"

"I'm not actively bleeding, so I figure I'm ahead of the curve." She smelled good, like cloves and beer, a combination which shouldn't have worked, but did. "How are you, darlin'?"

"Same as you, I imagine. Bit pissed at Bob, but it would be a rare day I wasn't for some reason."

She slipped out of his arms, and he gave her a quizzical look. "What's he done now?"

"Skipped out, that's what. He said he had an "appointment elsewhere", which is his "I'm meeting with gods but I don't want to admit it" code. Completely fucking annoying."

He sighed heavily. "So he's not here, you don't know where he is, and you don't know when he'll be back."

"Bingo."

"Shit."

"What's up? Anything I can help with?"

He considered that for a moment, and realized he really had no choice. If Bob wasn't around, Helga really was the next best thing. So he told her everything, from Angel returning to the bizarro Berserker to the sewer monster. Although she raised her eyebrow once or twice, she listened without comment, waiting until he was done. She tapped her fingers briefly on the bar as she considered it all, and then told him, "That's just two new things to add to my list."

"What d'ya mean?"

"Well, earlier, a friend of mine called from Ojai to report that they'd seen a three headed bat, and someone down in Ventura County reported a rain of larva."

"Larva?"

"You know, little bugs." She held her thumb and forefinger a couple of inches apart, as if he asked for a size. "Maybe inchworms, but she wasn't sure. Anyways, the inexplicable seems to be piling up. That's not a good sign."

Great, it got worse. Why wasn't he surprised? "Know what it could mean?"

Her tail twitched impatiently over her shoulder. "It could mean a whole lotta things, most of them pretty fucking bad. We'll have to narrow things down."

"How do we do that?"

"_We_ don't do it, I do. You sit tight, I'll let you know as soon as I dig some stuff up. Better yet, get a shower, you smell like demon blood, and catch a nap, 'cause you look exhausted. Where are you staying?"

He scratched his head, not about to argue with her. She could probably kick his ass, which was one of the things he loved about her. "Umm, well, I haven't worked that out yet -"

She pulled a key out of the pocket of her shorts and tossed it at him. He caught it in one hand, stopped in mid sentence. "Bob's industrial zone penthouse," she told him. "You know, the one by the meatpacking district, with the swimming pool in the roof? Help yourself. Just leave the left side of the bed clear for me."

He could have argued, but was unable to repress the smile. Not only were those nice digs with guaranteed privacy - Bob was the only one who lived within blocks of that place; it wasn't technically zoned for habitation, and yet that didn't stop Bob - but there was always Australian beer in the fridge. And then there was the undeniably fun company. "I'm beginnin' to reconsider that marriage proposal."

She wagged a finger at him, a sort of mock scolding. "Don't even tease. Now get your sweet ass movin', I'll call you when I sink my teeth into something good."

Knowing her, that was just as likely to be literal as figurative.

He left the Way Station, throwing a shit eating grin at the glowering Lia as he left, and she gave him the finger, which made him laugh. He almost felt sorry for Lia, although he didn't know why. He was very glad he'd stopped by, though.

Outside it was too damn bright, in spite of the thin smog layer, and it was already too damn hot; today would be a scorcher. Was that common for this time of year, or unusual? He really didn't know Southern California well enough to say. All he knew was they didn't have winter here.

He looked around, just confirming that no one was waiting for him, when he saw a man on the corner at the end of the street, looking at what appeared to be a PDA. There was something familiar about the curve of his shoulders, his posture, although the identity didn't immediately spring to mind. He shaded his eyes for a better look, before he started walking towards him. His back was to him, there was no way he was a tail sent by Lotus, but with his white dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, he didn't look like he belonged within seven blocks of this neighborhood.

The wind shifted, and he caught his scent, which was instantly recognizable. But it made no sense at all, and for a moment he wondered if he was now hallucinating. Considering all the weird shit that had happened so far, it was possible.

"Giles?" he asked curiously.

The man turned around, and indeed it was the slightly rumpled Englishman, whose look of surprise probably mirrored his own. "Logan? What are you doing here?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

He glanced down at his PDA, which Logan saw was displaying what looked like GPS coordinates. "Oh, I'm doing the usual. Or what seems like the usual, at any rate."

"Which is ..?"

"Averting an apocalypse."

Oh yes, of course. That should have been his first guess.


	4. Part 4

He looked around, up and down the block, but right now he and Giles were the only souls in sight. He didn't smell anyone else either, or sense anyone watching. "Er, um … now?"

"I'm trying to narrow down the coordinates of a rather large mystical source. It's a cloaking spell of some sort, I gather, but a locator spell didn't work. Whatever this spell is, it's powerful enough to repel any others."

"It's on this block?"

"Yes. I can't seem to pinpoint it, though."

He hoped he was wrong, but he took a guess. "It might be the place I just came out of, Bob's bar, the Way Station. He put a glamour on it to keep Humans out, and hide it from non-demon eyes. " He pointed back in its direction, and Giles followed his finger with his eyes.

After a moment, he scowled. "Bugger. I was sure it would be the hiding place of the Erebus Stone."

"The what?"

Giles turned off the PDA with a series of brisk, sharply impatient motions, and didn't answer him more than he muttered to himself. "Bloody information brokers. I should know better than to trust them." He pocketed the device, and finally looked at him once more. "I believe someone is trying to use the Erebus Stone, which will effectively end life on this planet as we know it. I believe it's here, that it came into port at Santa Monica sometime within the last few days. Since transporting it would be troublesome, I doubt it's left the area."

"Okay, hold on," he said, feeling even more confused than before. "I think we need to go somewhere and compare stories. Wanna drink?"

Giles gave him a horrified look. "At this time of the morning?"

So they ended up in a Starbucks two and a half blocks over, comparing notes. (So much for his shower, and any possible Helga love.) Just because he was apparently in a mood to be difficult, he ordered a double espresso. Logan ordered a tea, just to match him in general contrariness.

According to Giles, a mudslide following a volcanic eruption in a little nowhere town in Mexico unearthed an "unusual object" that the locals avoided, which included not only the people but animals and insects. A former Watcher in Central America went to have a look at the thing, and was able to suggest that it just might be the fabled "Erebus Stone" before he was brutally murdered, and the object taken. The Erebus Stone was some kind of mythical device, buried inside what appeared to be solid rock, but actually wasn't; after a needlessly long story, it boiled down to a powerful sorceress encasing it in in this special material to keep anyone from finding it ever. Where the Erebus "splinter" originally came from was unknown, but it was known to be a kind of dimensional skeleton key: used correctly, you could open all sorts of doorways between worlds. And therein laid the problem with the thing, the caveat "used correctly". It was difficult to use correctly, and trying to access it in a half assed manner (not the term he used, but obviously what he meant) could cause all sorts of problems, one of the main ones being "dimensional bleed". Giles was more concerned about people falling into these "dimensional sinkholes" than anything that might come out of them, although he added that that would really depend on what dimension the thing came from. But if someone didn't stop trying to mess with the damn thing, the condition could become permanent; the dimensional barriers could totally break down, meaning anything and everything could exist at once. "And you don't want every hell dimension existing here at the same time," he said, finishing his lecture. "The cleaning bills alone will be enormous."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "You made a joke?"

"I do do that from time to time," he replied, almost defensively. "Besides, I think I have jet lag."

That made him scratch his head. This day just got weirder, and there was no end in sight, was there? "Okay. First of all, how do you know it came in through Santa Monica? Second of all, what do you plan to do with it when you find it? Third, who might be trying to use it, why, and do you think it's the reason for all this weird shit?"

Giles took a deep drink of his coffee and seemed to let it settle before he answered. "Trusted contact; send it far, far away; I don't know; perhaps to take advantage of the chaos; and quite probably."

It took him a moment to realize he had answered every single one of his questions in sequence. "You really do have jet lag."

"I told you." He took another drink of his coffee, and grimaced. He then started looking around, presumably for some sugar or cream or something, but their window table was bare of everything but a napkin dispenser. He got up and checked out the nearest empty tables, as Logan glanced outside, and wondered how he got himself in this kind of shit. He could be back at the mansion, teaching kids hand to hand combat, and maybe fighting some evil mutant menace, but no, he had to be in L.A. trying to stop a mystical "splinter" from destroying reality. Actually, come to think of it, they both sounded like piss poor life choices. Maybe he should go back to homeless wandering for a while - life was so simple then.

"You said you thought the thing was here because it's difficult to transport," he finally told Giles, who seemed to find the cream container he was looking for. But by the way he paused and looked down at the table, he'd found something else as well. "But they moved it up from Mexico all right."

Giles grabbed what he was looking at - a copy of the Los Angeles Times - and sat back down heavily. "The energies it gives off, it's a magnet for all sorts of bad things, that's why I assumed someone would try and hide it with a powerful cloaking spell." He stared at the newspaper, posture stiffening, and said almost breathlessly, "Oh no. Someone's feeding it."

That seemed like a non-sequitur, but with Giles there was no way to be certain. He was like an absentminded professor, who just happened to be a demon expert who could cast some kick ass spells. "What? What are you talking about?"

"To try and free the splinter is a ritual that requires lots of blood, and I think the bloodletting's started." He folded the paper to the story he was referring to and handed it to him. The headline blared _"Movie Theater Massacre"_, and he scanned the story underneath. It seemed that some guy went nutso at a theater in central L.A. last night and killed the audience for a current gross out rom com, also getting a fellow employee or two before he was shot dead by police. According to a surviving projectionist, he was shouting something about them all being "demons", and while the guy had a clean record, there was speculation he'd suffered a "psychotic break", as he'd been on antidepressants that were now known to have some unusually unhelpful side effects. "The guy's dead," Logan pointed out. "He can't be our splinter guy."

"He wouldn't be," Giles agreed. "Considering the sheer amount of blood necessary for the ritual, whoever has the stone will have to manipulate "agents", get other people to do his or her dirty work. Otherwise they'd be exposing themselves before they have the splinter freed, which would attract an undue amount of unwanted attention."

Well, he knew this shit - he supposed he have to trust him. "But what if the guy just saw an actual theater full of demons and freaked out?"

"Well, that is a possibility, but there's a way for you to find that out."

He glared at him across the table. "Me?"

Giles gave him the smallest of cold smiles. "You can tell a demon from a Human by smell alone, can't you?"

Oh damn it. People were always catching him on technicalities.

6

This time, he decided the setting was a tropical beach, with white sand like crushed bones, water as blue and clear as sapphires, palm trees with full, healthy fronds providing much needed shade. Bob lounged beneath one of the trees, the little gecko friend he created perched patiently on his left cheek, clinging to his skin with little sucker feet.

The Powers hadn't taken on a form. They were simply all around him, above him, the hot blue sky like aquamarine fire. They were a blend of voices, male, female, and undetermined, sounding like a crowd speaking in unison. Not that any of them were actually speaking, mind you. "So why am I being spanked this time? " he wondered. He actually couldn't guess, mainly because there was so much to choose from.

"You are abusing your powers," they claimed, as stern as emotionally vacant gods could be. "You are reflecting poorly on us."

"Since when do you care about your image?"

There was no reply, just a very long pause pregnant with threat, and Bob let the sound of a gentle surf lapping against the shore fill it in. He hated when they "called" him, and he hated shedding his form and "walking" into this pocket dimension even more. All they ever did was curse him out for some transgression, and he could never get a straight answer out of them. Did he ask to be born among them? No he didn't, nor did he ask to be exiled here in a demon form. If they were unhappy with him, they only had themselves to blame.

After letting the silence drag on for time immeasurable, he finally guessed, "I guess Eris chewed you a new one, huh?"

"We have looked the other way for too long," the voices proclaimed - Bob took that as a "Yes". "You are proving to be a … liability. Camaxtli should have been taken care of long ago."

"I don't have all my powers, do I? It seems someone cut me off from them. Gee, I wonder who that could be?"

Sarcasm was wasted on the Powers. Humorless sods. "You do not deserve even the meager powers you have. Until you are worthy of them, you do not deserve to have them."

Bob sat up, startling the gecko. That sounded too much like a threat for his tastes. "What? Hey, you didn't give me my fuckin' powers back, I had to find them on my own. You can't take them -"

"Can, and have. Do your duty, or suffer as they do," the voices proclaimed, and Bob felt himself ripped out of the pocket dimension.

It was a pain more psychic than physical, an ice dagger digging deep into his metaphysical brain, and he hit the carpet of his hallway hard, tasting blood. His whole body felt like it had just been flattened by a steamroller. "Fuck," he groaned into the floor, waiting for the pain to subside. Being violently re-corporealized was never pleasant, just as being suddenly de-corporealized was just like a bullet train through the heart of a nuclear reactor while wearing tinfoil underpants.

As he laid on the carpet, trying to catch his breath and get used to having a body again, he wondered if the Powers had done something to Jean. Maybe they'd done nothing; maybe they were just pissed off that he couldn't do anything more than he'd already done. Or maybe they'd cleaned up his mess by killing her. He'd like to think they couldn't be that cruel - she didn't ask for god powers, she just got stuck with them - but they could be. He knew them, he was of them for Ammit's sake, and the truly immortal and omnipotent didn't let such trivial things as compassion and sentimentality get in the way. This is why he sucked at being one of them. That, and he just hated to follow orders.

When he felt strong enough, and somewhat familiar with his own body, he pushed himself up to his knees, and tried to will some clothes back on, as the air conditioner was set too high and it was bloody cold.

And that's when he realized how cruel the Powers truly were.

It didn't work. He couldn't access his own power, couldn't find it in his own mind, feel it in his own skin. He was meat through and through, a purely corporeal being, a very old Belial demon and nothing more. "You fucking bastards," he shouted. "Not again!"

But if they were listening, they were probably having a laugh at his expense - well, in a manner of speaking. They never actually laughed in their endless existence.

He wondered if they really were going to give him his powers back, or if he'd have to start from scratch, and get them back by himself all over again.

7

Somehow, working together, they actually covered a lot of ground.

On his way to the Grand Royal Cinema, Logan stopped in at Argenis's shop, and discovered he did have some kind of "freezing" spell, which sounded complicated as hell, but he figured he could palm it off on Giles; it'd probably make perfect sense to him.

The movie theater was closed down and cordoned off with crime scene tape, and sawhorses placed about one hundred feet in front of it to keep the press at bay, but Logan snuck around the back, and used a claw to jimmy open a fire exit door and slip inside.

Although forensic teams had clearly been all over the place, they were going to have a hell of a time getting out the lingering stench of blood. It had seeped into the carpet, into the upholstery, into the very walls itself. Beneath its meaty, metallic stench, there was a bitter taste of cordite and fear, still vivid even half a day beyond the event.

All Human. There wasn't a single tinge of demon in any of the smells he was picking up, and it made his stomach knot, turn cold. He knew it was silly prejudice - not all demons were bad - but he supposed he could've taken this easier if there were some actual demons among the victims, or if the shooter himself was possessed or something. But from the scents he was parsing, there had been no demons in here at all recently, not that he could discern beneath the very Human reek of blood.

The cold solidity in his belly started to transmogrify into anger, so he left before he started tearing up the joint even more.

Brendan was up and around by the afternoon, and caught up with him before he could rendezvous with Giles. Bren had been talking to various Stone Temple worshippers, and rumors in the "demon underground" had it that Brezakaran was back. That made Logan look at him curiously. "Who the hell is Brezakaran?"

"See, I don't know," the kid admitted, sipping his Slurpee. They'd stopped at a 7-11 on the way because Brendan hadn't had breakfast, and Logan decided he needed something to get rid of the scent of blood that seemed to have lodged in his nose. He bought a cheap cigar that stunk to high heaven and tasted horrible, like old shoe leather, but that was okay - after two inhales, the reek of blood had been replaced. He stubbed it out on the wall of the store and tossed it in a trash can. "Supposedly he's some big bad demon mobster - he used to run the demon mob around here, but he got himself killed."

That made Logan pause. "He's dead?"

"He was. He came back a month or so ago. Apparently it's not a big deal, demons die and come back all the time." The kid actually said it with a straight face, like it was common small talk. "Anyways, he was this big, powerful guy, everybody's afraid of him, and they figure he's back 'cause there's now a kinda power vacuum in the demon mob. But the thing is, Brezakaran is apparently acting really weird. No one's actually seen him, no one knows where he actually is, and he's recruiting a whole bunch of bad ass soldiers and guards through something called "Octavian matches". Which is seen as weird, 'cause a guy like him doesn't need an army - he's already got one." He shrugged. "It's just real weird. I thought it might be important."

"Maybe." He caused that power vacuum, didn't he? Shit. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. There were several curious things about that story, not the least of which was the fact that he came back from the dead, and no one thought it odd, but they thought that the fact that he was recruiting an army was seen as beyond the pale. Demons really did have a different set of social rules.

Although the smell and taste of the blood had gone away, the coldness in his stomach remained, and he could clearly recall, in spite of the pitch blackness in the theater, the dark splotches on the red velvet seats, not perforated by holes so much as destroyed by them. Those people had been sitting ducks, they had no chance, and the fact that the shooter was probably operating under some mystically induced illusion didn't make him feel any sympathy for him. If he'd been there, he'd have cut the fucking guy's arm off - if he'd been lucky. "Kid, I don't know if you should be involved in this," he admitted, as they worked their way towards the Park, where he was supposed to meet Giles. "This is end of the world shit, and while I'm hardly an expert at it, I do know it gets pretty ugly."

Brendan gave him a deeply disappointed look. "Don't be like everyone else, Logan."

"I'm not, I'm sayin' -"

"I feel useful here, like I never have at the mansion," he insisted, sounding almost heartbroken. "I've done some real good here. And more than that, I feel like I belong. L.A. is a freak haven, and I'm almost normal here. It's a nice change of pace."

He supposed he could understand. He never felt like he actually belonged anywhere, and he supposed if he ever did find that mythical place, he'd never want to leave either, even if he did have to fight Armageddon in it. Logan gave him a companionable slap on the back, and said, "Fine. But you gotta promise me yer not gonna die. Promise?"

He smirked, his ruby eyes glittering with something close to affection. "Okay, I promise. But you can't die either."

"I never do. For long."

By the time they hit the park, it felt like it was in the high nineties, and Logan was carrying his coat over his shoulder, glad he already threw his over shirt away after going to the theater and coming away with the blood smell in the flannel. Still, even in no more than his tank top, he felt too hot, and he was sure there were still spots of demon blood on it. They found Giles sitting under a bench in the shade of a large oak, looking rather miserable from the heat himself.

Once the introductions were out of the way - Giles and Brendan had never met before, and Giles seemed intrigued that Bren was both a mutant and a brachen demon - they compared notes. Giles actually knew the spell that Argenis had told him about, saying it was rather "pedestrian", but should do for a while. He had all the ingredients for it back at his hotel. He had no idea who Brezakaran was, but he knew what the Octavian matches were. Apparently they were demon cage fights, only fights to death, usually in front of high paying and betting Human audiences. But the fights for a place on Brezakaran's payroll weren't being held in front of Humans.

Giles agreed with him that Brezakaran was looking like a ripe suspect for having the erebus Stone. After all, a high powered demon mobster would have the money and the ability to acquire the stone, and might try and use it for his own purposes, damn the consequences. He could also use the Octavian matches to acquire more blood to "feed" the stone, as well as soldiers to help him protect it. It was a win-win situation for him.

Brendan called his "contact" who gave him this information - Thrak (his job as a demon specific cab driver apparently gave him access to a great deal of inside info) - and asked if he could find out when and where the next Octavian match would be taking place. All Logan could hear was a lot of phlegmy gargling, but Bren told him he said that he'd do his best to find out. Wow, the kid had been here a while; he'd learn to talk Thrak.

In spite of the intense daylight, Logan had a feeling Angel would be up and stewing in his hotel room, and Giles was inclined to agree with him. So they headed over to the Sea Crest, which looked less elegant and slightly more seedy in the harsh light of day. They were correct: Angel answered the door about ten seconds after he knocked. He seemed surprised to see Giles, and it took him aback for a moment, but then he said, in his usual deadpan, "Giles."

Giles replied, in his style of deadpan, "Angel."

And that was it, the extent of the emotional reunion between these two guys. Logan had no idea how these guys had known each other, or how long they had known each other, but he knew there was some history here. Where Wesley had fit into it was another thing he simply didn't know, and it didn't seem right to ask.

Angel's room was small and dark (of course the curtains were drawn tightly shut), and he appeared cleaned up and relatively okay, if not well rested. The bed was still made, with just the slightest wrinkling on the coverlet suggested he'd ever tried to get any sleep.

They all sat down where they could, although Angel remained standing, and they started to fill him in. When they got to Brezakaran, his eyes widened and he sat up straighter, looking shocked. "You know who he is?" Giles guessed.

Angel looked between the three of them, like they were all ever so slightly mad. "Know him? I killed him."

Oh, terrific. Brendan, sitting on the edge of the bed, groaned and hung his head in his hands. "There goes that plan," he muttered.

Angel looked even more confused than before. "What plan?"

Giles sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Brezakaran has been having Octavian matches to fill out his own personal army. We were hoping to get you inside."

Angel shook his head. "I wouldn't want to do that again anyways, even if it was for Brezakaran."

"Again?" Logan wondered. He'd done the Octavian thing before?

Brendan's cell phone went off, but instead of a normal ring, it played the theme of the British t.v. show Red Dwarf. Did he want to know? No, but at least Brendan had pretty good taste in television shows.

Even from across the room, where he was perched on the edge of a small table, he could hear the snotty growling hacks of Thrak. Brendan nodded and gave monosyllabic replies before hanging up. "Well, there's a match on tonight, in a closed down nightclub on pier seventeen. I suppose I could go in -"

"No," he, Giles, and Angel all exclaimed in unison. Brendan scowled at being overruled so quickly and thoroughly.

"We could stake it out," Angel offered. "He probably won't be there, but maybe we can nail one of his lieutenants."

Giles grimaced, not quite shaking his head, but clearly not happy with that idea. "There's too many things that could go wrong. Maybe we could just follow one, see where he leads us."

"Which could be a wild goose chase," Brendan pointed out. "What we need is someone on the inside. If you're not gonna let me go, then maybe we oughta find someone who can go in."

Angel gave him a rather critical glance. "Who are we going to find on short notice willing to go into a life and death brawl with a bunch of ambitious demons? Someone we can trust, and someone who can convince Brezakaran that he's a fighter he can't do without?"

Suddenly, Angel looked across the room at him, and Brendan and Giles followed suit. Logan felt like a spotlight had been put upon him. "What?" he snapped, although he instantly realized what they were all tacitly saying.

Logan sighed, supposing he should be flattered. "Yeah, okay. Let me get a shower first, and change my clothes. Then I'll go."

He was, after all, "king of the cage". No one ever said his opponents would only be Human.


	5. Part 5

8

Logan was content to go alone, but no one was content to let him. So while Logan went back to his place to shower and change, he, Angel, and Giles did a bit of brainstorming. Brendan was the only one who knew where the pier seventeen was, so he was vital to the planning, and he was glad. He did feel useful, and it was nice for a change to not feel like the third wheel, the guy who was just kind of there, like an extra on the bridge of a Star Trek set.

It was obvious Angel couldn't go. If he killed the guy in the first place, he wasn't going to be welcomed with open arms, and he knew it, but he didn't like the idea of Logan going in there without back up. Ironically, Giles didn't seem concerned at all. "Logan is more than capable of taking care of himself," he said coolly. "Probably more capable than any of us. I wouldn't worry about him."

Angel gave him a funny look, then asked him what Brendan had been wondering as well: "How do you know him?"

Which led to Giles telling them a story about a crazed Watcher who cut a deal with an evil demi-god to open a Hellmouth in the heart of London, presumably to give the good guys a "focal point" for the battle against evil. He and Logan faced the Watcher down, and Logan cut him in half. "He said he could have controlled it better if Ned hadn't been trying to burn his face off," Giles concluded, as if that hadn't been a really bizarre thing to say. "I've no idea, but I do believe most people probably need protection from Logan, not vice versa. It's a good thing he's on our side."

Angel didn't disagree, but he said, "That doesn't mean he can't be hurt."

"I know," Giles replied, with the same sense of reserve as before. "But having seen his face grow back, I have a difficult time working up an overwhelming sense of concern."

There was no good answer to that, was there?

Although it was a hard sell, Brendan was able to convince them he could go along with Logan - in full Brachen face - just to make sure he could get in with little incident. After all, these fights weren't technically open to Humans, although no one in the room had any doubt that Logan would win every single fight, no matter what demon opponent they threw in with him. Fighting was his thing, after all, and as Giles had pointed out, he had a gift for it.

Giles figured he could use a type of cloaking spell to make him smell demon to other demons, allowing him to at least enter the crowd without gaining too much attention. He'd be checking out the lieutenants in the audience, and deciding which one was the most likely prospect for tailing - and Brendan figured, keeping an eye on him, although neither Giles nor Angel said that. But he was the "kid", and they were being protective of him. Angel would be loitering in the shadows outside, ready to intervene if there was any trouble, but they all considered that a last resort, as it would blow their cover.

There was a curious conversational aside between Angel and Giles, Angel asking cryptically if "she" was all right, never naming the she in question, but Giles seemed to know, and said she was. Brendan was dying to know what that was about, but since they said it in whispered tones, he knew he wasn't supposed to have heard that. Wasn't that always the way? He was always shut out of the really good gossip.

He and Giles waited in the lobby for Logan's return, as it was starting to get awkward in Angel's small, dark room. Giles asked him about himself, which Brendan always found a thorny topic, and yet there was something so avuncular and calming about Giles that he ended up telling him everything: how his mom was in prison on drug charges, and would have done less time if she'd actually killed someone. How he wrote her letters every month, although he'd never gotten around to mentioning he was a mutant, nor that he discovered he was half demon. He'd never known his father, and his mom had never talked about him, making him wonder if she even knew he was a demon, since she had struggled with her drug problem all her life, and quite possibly didn't even know who his father was. He also talked about how Matt had been killed by vampires, leading him to this choice of profession. Giles listened with few comments, and when he did talk, he gave him what seemed to be sage advice, reminding him that being controlled by his own passions when it came to vampires could be deadly, and if he was determined to actually become some kind of vampire hunter, it was safer to not only be in a group, but to learn from someone who had been doing it for some time. Brendan just wasn't sure if he was referring to himself, Angel, or Logan. Maybe all of them.

Logan showed before sunset, and Brendan just didn't know how he did it. He was wearing what was clearly a new green tank top out of the package - there was still a crease in it where it was folded, just at mid chest level - jeans old enough to be carbon dated, with small holes and what could have been cigarette burns sparsely sprinkled about the legs, and hiking boots that looked like they'd done their share of hiking. And he looked great, like some macho icon that just stepped out of a drive in movie screen. How the fuck did he _do _that? If he wore stuff like that, he always looked as schleppy as hell, like he should be holding a sign on a freeway off ramp.

Maybe it was just the attitude. Logan clearly didn't give a rat's ass what anyone thought of him, how he looked or who he was, and that was just cool and sexy. You couldn't fake that, or at least not well - you had it or you didn't. It wasn't arrogance, but it wasn't exactly sang-froid either; Logan just honestly didn't give a shit. Could he die tonight? Was the world going to end? Was the restaurant going to be full? All of this was a big "whatever" to him, he'd adapt, which was frightening in its basic nihilism, and yet still wildly attractive. Or maybe he just never got over his "bad boy" thing.

Or it was Logan's arms. He had great arms, like he had a great chest; in fact, the shirt was tight and thin enough that you could see the contours of his chest, and a shadow of hair beneath, and … he _really _needed to stop thinking like this. Logan was a friend and mentor and you didn't think about them that way, especially if they were straight and there was no way in hell they'd ever look at you in the same way. And if he was ever so inclined, he could kick his ass from here to San Bernardino. So no, he couldn't think of him that way, as much as he wanted to, as fun as it was.

He tried to get his head in the game, ignoring the lust, which was difficult. He managed, though, and Thrak's cab screeched up to the front of the hotel just in time. They piled in, although Giles hesitated and stared at Thrak, wondering aloud how an Ugg demon could possibly drive (Logan's response: _"Don't ask. Don't even think about it, unless you want nightmares for weeks.") _but then they got under way. Thrak raced to their destination like it was a contest, and as he cornered wildly, Brendan found himself smashed up against Logan a couple of times. It was not nearly as fun as it should have been, since Logan gave new meaning to the term "hard body" - holy shit, how was he ever comfortable in his own skin? Then again, there was something appealing about a guy with such a solid body …

No, that way led to trying to picture Logan naked, and madness.

Thrak actually brought them to the waterfront, but not the specific pier, as there was no way to drive on that. Which was fine, as no one wanted to stay in the cab a moment longer, and it gave Giles a chance to cast the spell on himself while Brendan showed Logan where the abandoned nightclub was (closed down due to fire code violations about four months ago - apparently the wiring in the structure was really shoddy and dangerous, and the owner couldn't afford to have the place rewired). They looked on, crouched behind someone's beater car, and watched as demons started to filter in, the sky turning crimson over the gray-blue ocean as the angry red eye of the sun began to set. It was equally beautiful and eerie.

"No vamps in this?" Logan asked.

That was a good question. He tried to remember what Thrak had gargled at him, but since he had an eidetic memory - his utterly useless mutant power - the only reason he had any problems with recall was his proximity to "The Chest", as he and some of the girls at school used to call it. (Logan's chest seemed to deserve its own capitals.) "No. Brezakaran wants soldiers as close to invulnerable as possible. Vamps are usually good for that, until you get into the whole daylight issue."

Logan nodded. "He wants twenty four hour party people. Figures."

See, did you have to take a class to learn how to say pithy things like that? Or did you just learn it as you went along? He never had a good quip until after the fact.

They already had a plan as to how they were going to handle this. Giles, faking being a half-breed, was going to go in the front, just an audience member here for the fights. He and Logan were going to go around to the back, the fighter's entrance, and try and get in. Bren was going to be playing his "agent", and since his age was hard to discern in Brachen face, they figured they could get away with that. They assumed that the screeners would give Logan a hard time since he was Human, but Logan was ready for them. Since he was supposed to be just his "agent", Logan told him to hang back and not interfere, no matter how the fight seemed to be going - he had to impress them on his own, and he intended to. Far be it from him to get in Logan's way, especially if he was mad.

They let Giles go first, then waited five minutes before approaching the back entrance. Brendan decided he'd try and be like Ratso Rizzo, in Midnight Cowboy, but then remembered the character was technically a pimp, and also he died. So maybe just the generic huckster then. He'd dated Matt for a long time, hadn't he? He should know how to do it.

The screeners at the back door were two types of demons he'd never encountered before. They were big - six six and six five, respectively - with broad chests even bigger and more muscular than Logan's, and arms as thick as telephone poles. The tallest one was as red as a sunburn, completely hairless, with a crown of tiny horns, no bigger than a vampire's fangs, growing in a semi-circle around his scalp. His eyes were small and close set, making his face look permanently pinched and pissed off. The slightly shorter guy was Saint Tropez tan, with an almost Human guise offset slightly by the fact that his nose was just a couple of small slits in the center of his face, and he just had the one eye - one big eye, about the size of a grapefruit, chocolate brown with a bright orange pupil, and his buzz cut black hair wasn't hair on closer inspection; it was something a little more wiry, and seemed to move on its own, waving back and forth in obvious contradiction to the direction of the wind. One smelled like cheap aftershave, and the other smelled like coleslaw, although he wasn't as good as parsing smells as Logan, so he didn't know which was which.

The red guy elbowed the cyclops and gestured to them as they came up, and they started laughing. "We didn't order any food," the red guy said to him, as his cyclops buddy laughed so hard he had to turn away and wipe a big ass tear from his eye.

How was he going to play this? Well, how would Matt play this? Brendan looked the red guy straight in the eye, and said, "Sorry, see were looking for the Octavian matches. I didn't realize this was the sissy boy gang bang. Point us in the right direction, and you can get back to blowing donkeys, or whatever it is you people do." Matt was gay and as suave as hell, but there was nothing he enjoyed more than a really nasty, bitchy insult.

They stopped laughing rather abruptly, and gave him laser intensity glares. If Logan hadn't been with him, radiating quiet but palpable menace, he may have been worried. But he wasn't, because he knew Logan was just waiting for an excuse to go medieval on their asses. "What the hell did you just say, you punk bitch?" the red guy snapped.

"Are you afraid to let me in to your little dog and pony show?" Logan said, his voice pitched so low it was a soft rumble.

It worked as well as a slap. Both the red guy and the cyclops shifted their baleful stares to Logan, and Logan stared back implacably, violently unimpressed. The red guy reached out and snagged the front of Logan's tank top, ripping it as he balled the material in his fist and pulled Logan closer to him. "You wanna get killed, Human?"

Logan never broke his stare. "Get your hand off me."

"Make me, fuckhead," the red guy spat in his face.

Famous last words. Brendan took a step back instantly, to avoid getting blood on his clothes.

Logan moved so fast that the guy probably didn't even see it coming. He gave red a quick, brutal rabbit punch to the throat, which made him gag and loosen his grip. As soon as the red guy took a step back, Logan grabbed his arm and twisted, fast and hard - the sound of his bone snapping was as loud as a firecracker.

The red guy dropped to his knees, making a strange noise like a leaking balloon, and the cyclops rushed in from the side to protect his buddy, throwing a roundhouse punch, three inch spikes suddenly growing all along his arms and hands. Logan saw the attack coming and stepped under the punch, delivering a hard punch to the cyclops' midsection, one that made all the air rush out of him in an "oof". He followed that up instantly with a stiff handed, open palm shot to the underside of the cyclops' chin, making his head snap back so violently he stumbled back and lost his balance, falling hard onto his ass. By that time, Logan had already spun into a low side kick that impacted the cyclops' head so hard that Brendan winced, and was honestly surprised that his eyeball had flown straight out of its oversized socket. Logan was back looking down at the red guy, fist pulled back in a threatening manner, before the cyclops thudded to the pier. "Is that all you got, asshole?" he growled.

The red guy looked up at him with a sneer, but the tears running from his eyes as he struggled to draw a breath undercut any desired menace. He gestured to the door behind him with his good hand, and rasped, "Go get yourself killed, ape man. I'll enjoy watchin' you get dismembered."

Logan looked at him, and suddenly his grim game face broke, and he gave him a sly grin and a wink before mouthing the words "Too easy".

See, you just couldn't fake cool like that.

No non-combatants were allowed through the back, so as soon as Logan had disappeared through the door, he left the screener demons to lick their wounds and regain consciousness (how cool was that? He didn't even have to pop his claws) and went through the crowd entrance, although he was barely able to squeeze in - the place was packed, virtually to the rafters. The rafters were pretty close too, because for some reason the floor was raised. The Orbital electronica classic "Satan" pounded through the walls as he squeezed through the demon bodies, some smelling much better than others, but his Brachen spikes finally came in handy, helping him clear a path through the crowd.

He got to the bar and grabbed a beer before searching for Giles. It took him a while, but he finally found him near the railing looking down at the fighter's pit in the dead center of the club, explaining the raised floor. There was a clear spot on the right side wall, and as soon as static flickered through it, he knew why - t.v. wall, so everybody could see the carnage no matter where they stood.

As he came up beside Giles, he looked at him askance, and it seemed to take the guy a couple of seconds to recognize him beneath the red spikes and teal skin. "How're you doing?" he asked, trying not to be offended. Giles hadn't seen him in his demon face before, so that was only fair.

"I think my ears are bleeding," he replied, scowling slightly at the unseen speakers. He then pointedly glanced at the bottle of Wicked Pale Ale he was holding, and asked, "Are you old enough for that?"

He scoffed, and claimed, "They carded me. So yeah." Which wasn't true at all - if you were a demon, no demon bar "carded" you - but he was hoping that Giles hadn't been in enough demon bars to know that.

Although he looked dubious, he couldn't prove he was lying or rip it out of his hand, so he looked down at the pit with a "harrumph". After a moment, he asked, "How did it go?"

"Smooth as butter. Logan didn't even break a sweat taking them out. Hell, he didn't even have to unleash the hardware. He's a total stud."

Giles gave him a funny look for that, but then shrugged. "Well, he's … something."

Suddenly the music and lights started to fade, and a microphone descended from the ceiling, coming to a stop directly over the empty white pit as it lit up, as if from a hidden spotlight. A man flew out of the crowd on four gossamer wings and hovered over the pit, so he could speak directly into the mike. He was a slender Gaizkin demon, two and a half feet long, with a thin, tapered body covered in a smooth, waxy white carapace, his head bulbous and dominated by two huge segmented eyes, four of his eight slender arms/legs grabbed the mike, and his mandibles opened. At first there was just a clicking noise, but it soon translated. "Welcome to tonight's fights! We have a full card, so let's get under way. Remember, no throwing objects at the combatants, and no jumping in the pit - unless you're prepared to die. Open the gates!"

Brendan could just barely see three doors on either side of the pit. Two opened, and a demon emerged from each - one a thickly muscled green Ressik, the other a vaguely bluish Humanoid demon he didn't recognize. "How soon before Logan comes up, you think?" Brendan asked, as the fight commenced. It didn't last long - as soon as the Ressik could grab the blue guy's head, he snapped his neck with a violent crack, and seemed to be ripping his head clean off his neck with his bare hands. He tore it free with a noise that was so wet and disgusting that Bren actually thought he might vomit even though he was looking away. He guessed that the Ressik was holding up the head when the crowd cheered wildly, but he didn't look. He looked at Giles instead, who blanched, and seemed not to like what he was seeing, but mostly he just looked angry.

"Soon. They'll get the weak ones out of the way first."

"Weak? Logan isn't weak!"

"No, but he's Human. To most demons, that equals weak."

"Let's hear it for the winner, Auvaukan!" the Gaizkin clicked over the crowd's roar. They roared even louder, and Brendan looked back down into the pit in time to see a couple of dreadlocked Hunhau demons come out of that mysterious third door and drag the dead body through the hatch. He couldn't help but wonder if they'd dump it in the ocean, or chop it up for someone's breakfast.

"I think I see a lieutenant," Giles muttered, gaining his attention. Brendan followed his gaze across the pit. On the other side, almost directly across from them, was a nattily dressed Ahtabai demon, which could pass for Human, save for their pointed "elf" ears, triangular fingernails, and slitted eyes like snakes. Beside him were two muscular Freniks with no necks, whose demeanor just screamed bodyguards. Neither he nor Giles stared, because that would have been suspicious.

"How do we get to him?" Brendan wondered.

"We don't. We wait. When we get a chance, we'll get closer. If Logan does his job right, that's all we'll need to do."

There was another bout, but this one took a bit longer, as the two demons seemed more evenly matched. He didn't recognize either breed. The bloody fight eventually ended up with a disemboweling, as the brown demon with a tapered snout like a hyena obviously had teeth like them as well. Brendan was amazed how quickly the Hunhaus could clean up all the blood and body parts.

After announcing the winner, who disappeared through the door he entered through, the Gaizkin said, "We have an … unusual contestant tonight, perhaps he has a suicide wish. Place your bets now - this should be over soon."

He didn't identify anyone, but he didn't need to. Clearly they were referring to the Human.

The gate beneath them opened, and a large, gray, armor shouldered Ghaddar demon came out, all scales and muscle, with a face that was half teeth; the other half looked like it had been smashed in with a cast iron skillet. The gate across the way opened, and out stalked a shirtless - oh Christ in a bucket, you could eat dinner off those pecs - Logan, his attitude saying that he just owned the place, in spite of the general height and width advantage that the Ghaddar had on him. The crowd reacted with great confusion, several pockets of the crowd laughed contemptuously, and the Ghaddar seemed to look at the spectators at the upper railings as if appealing for some explanation as to why he'd been given the gag prize.

Logan ignored the crowd, ignored the noise, and just started stalking towards the Ghaddar. Logan's usual strategy was to wait for the other guy to attack, unless something really pissed him off, so Brendan figured he was trying to goad the Ghaddar into making the first move. Although he'd always known that being on the defensive was not a position you wanted to be in ever, Logan told him once that he liked to see a guy's fighting style, which he could usually roughly discern by his choice of attack. He didn't recommend it for anyone who didn't have a rapid and thorough healing factor; it was just a thing he liked to do. He liked to see their weak spot, and hit it hard.

The Ghaddar finally noticed his approach, and lunged for him, provoking an approving and amused roar from the crowd. "Tear that dog up!" a woman shouted gleefully.

Logan was slammed into the far wall by the Ghaddar, his throat in its big gloved hands, and it looked like the Ghaddar was trying to repeat what the Ressik did to its victim in the first match.

Logan let the crowd work itself into a frenzy before he took control.

He did several things at once, which was all the more remarkable for the fact that he was being strangled at the same time. He launched a solid kick that landed right between the Ghaddar's legs with a painful thump, and grabbed one of the Ghaddar's fingers, yanking it back until it snapped like a twig. He loosened his grip on his neck, and Logan twisted and slammed a solid elbow - an adamantium laced elbow - in his mutilated face.

The Ghaddar staggered away, struggling to stay on its feet as its ears probably rung and its balls surely hurt, and the crowd let out a horrified gasp, the cheering dying suddenly as confusion suddenly reigned. The Ghaddar was probably more stunned than any of them - he couldn't know about the metal in Logan's body, the metal that gave him that little extra something, especially when he didn't hold back. He wasn't holding back anymore.

The Ghaddar lunged for him once more, but Logan side stepped this time, coming in at the last second to trip him, and send the Ghaddar slamming face first into the wall. The crowd was growing hostile, although confusion roiled beneath the surface. Giles touched his arm, and they started threading through the crowd towards the lieutenant. "This hasta be a joke," a demon muttered to his companion as they went past.

Logan grabbed the Ghaddar by the back of the head and rammed his face into the wall several times, hard enough that you could almost feel it, and the crowd was now reacting in disgust. He followed up with a vicious kidney punch - well, it would have been a kidney punch on a Human; no telling what it was on a Ghaddar - but then just backed off, as if going to his separate corner. Why? Brendan wasn't sure, unless he was milking it, or just because he wanted to piss off the crowd, which was starting to sound like a single angry entity. He cast a glance down into the pit, and thought he caught, briefly, a nasty little grin on Logan's face. Yep, he was pissing off the crowd. Perhaps a payback for the initial laughter. God, that guy just loved to push his luck. And what did it say about his sad psychological make up that he found that insanely attractive?

Although there was a smear of rust brown blood on the wall from his split open head, the Ghaddar gathered his wits and launched off the wall with a roar, armored shoulder aimed squarely at Logan. Logan did nothing, just seemed to wait for it, and Brendan stopped to watch, suddenly sure he was going to get himself splattered. Why didn't he ...

Oh.

Logan stepped aside at the last second, and sprung his claws.

They cut straight through the Ghaddar's shoulder, which he didn't notice until the crowd seemed to inhale as one, a shocked intake that would have been comical under any other circumstances. The Ghaddar looked at the blood fountaining from his left arm socket in alarm, then noticed his arm laying on the floor near the center of the pit. "Withdraw," Logan shouted, and it was loud in the sudden silence of the crowd. "I don't wanna cut you to pieces."

Now the crowd was coming back to life in hostile murmurs. "That's no Human," one hissed.

"Aren't those weapons?" said another. "They aren't allowed weapons."

"Mutie," one said, so contemptuously it sounded like a curse. "Fucking mutie."

The Ghaddar seemed momentarily confused, and stared between his arm and Logan for a good, long moment. "Fuck you, mammal!" he finally replied, and shook off the glove on his right hand, revealing that it wasn't so much a hand as it was a talon, a gnarled appendage ending in ten inch claws on each of his three fingers. He jumped up, almost like he had springs in his legs, and came down right behind Logan.

Who was ready for him. He crouched down instantly as the Ghaddar's claws cut through the air where his chest used to be, and jabbed his claw behind him without looking, cutting right through the Ghaddar's left leg.

Correction: he cut it off, just below the knee joint, which became obvious when the Ghaddar fell over, the bottom half of its leg remaining firmly planted on the floor. He was taking him apart in pieces, like he was the Black Knight. More blood spurted from the wound, and the crowd was now angry. While it showed that it enjoyed dismemberment in the previous match, apparently they only enjoyed it if the thing doing the dismembering was a demon.

Before the Ghaddar could recover from this wound, Logan finished the job, driving his claws through what passed for his throat and ripping to one side. His head didn't violently detach, just did so gently, rolling to one side in a brief cascade of blood. It was a mercy killing at this point, since Brendan couldn't see how the Ghaddar could have survived with a major artery in its leg severed.

Someone in the crowd screamed in horror - one of those that had been cheering when the Ressik held up his opponent's severed head. The rest of the crowd followed with noises of angry discontent, and it sounded dangerous, like they were about to storm the pit en masse. Brendan looked around, wondering what they should do, and Giles grabbed his arm and whispered, "Don't look suspicious. We're not with him."

"But ... Giles, what if they do something?"

"Then Logan will kill them. I seriously doubt there's anyone in this crowd he can't handle."

That was a good point.

A chant started up from the back, "Kill the Human!", and while the Hunhaus came out to get the body, the gate didn't open for Logan, so he remained in the pit. Although he looked annoyed, he didn't seemed surprised. But then again, Logan did these sort of "ultimate fighting" things as a partial career, didn't he? He just didn't use the claws - well, as far as he knew.

Without declaring him the winner, without announcing the next match, the opponent gate opened, and the ugliest damn thing that Brendan had ever seen came out. It looked like a walking blob, covered in black bristly hair, like the kind you found on flies. It had four very long tentacle like arms, and while he couldn't discern a face or any shape to its body beyond spheroid, it seemed to have a shark's mouth where its torso should be, a wide and lipless gash with three rows of small, jagged ivory teeth. "What the hell is that?" he asked.

Giles sucked a sharp breath through his teeth. "A Thulu demon. They'll eat anything that moves, and some things that don't. I didn't know they came this far North."

"Global warming?"

The Englishman shrugged. "Perhaps."

Two of the Thulu demons' tentacled arms whipped up, grabbed the lowest railing, and started swinging around the pit like a demented Tarzan that supplied his own vines. Logan watched it, growing increasingly annoyed, and finally the thing swung down at him, mouth first.

Logan ducked the bite, but just barely (how big did its mouth open? Was its whole body its mouth?), and slashed up at the same time, cutting into it, making something green - blood? - splash down to the pit floor. But while that happened, two of its other tentacles grabbed Logan's arms, and yanked him forward towards its gaping maw.

Brendan grabbed the rail, tensing in anxiety, and Giles put a hand on his shoulder, both comforting and restraining. Logan was on his own here.

The thing bit Logan's head, and probably would have taken the top of his skull clean off ... except Logan didn't have a normal skull, did he? Not anymore; not with all that adamantium in him.

The thing's teeth punctured his skin but broke on the adamantium, falling to the pit like shards of broken glass. It made a strange buzzing noise, like an angry wasp, and while Logan was in a really awkward position - arms restrained by tentacles, head partially jammed in the creature's mouth - he somehow wasn't defenseless. He jumped up, and kicked hard into the creature's midsection/lower mouth, and the thing's grip on him was so strong he was able to do it again, a donkey kick right to the gut. Apparently the key to making Logan defenseless was nailing all his limbs down, and even then you were taking your chances.

The Thulu figured out he was just helping his opponent hurt him and slackened its grip, letting Logan fall to the pit floor, but that meant Logan had some room to maneuver now. This time he kicked up straight into its mouth, sending even more of its teeth flying, and you could hear the things hit the walls as hard as pebbles. The crowd was now watching the spectacle in mute, dangerous horror.

Enraged, the thing screeched and let go of one of Logan's arms so he could slam him face first into the wall, hard enough that the floor seemed to shake. He then slammed him into the opposite wall, and then the original one, so fast that Logan looked like a rag doll in his grasp. Brendan wondered what the hell he was thinking - he thought he could _win _even one pit fight? If it was him down there instead of Logan, he'd be stone dead by now. Just the look of the Thulu was giving him a heavy case of the heebie jeebies.

Somehow, Logan - though determination or simple blind luck - was able to slash out with his claws blindly and cut the tentacle that was holding him. It broke free, and Logan went slamming into the wall again, but this time he got his arms up in time to avoid meeting it face first. The thing screeched like a power saw hitting metal, green blood spray from its tentacle stump like a hose, and surged towards Logan, who rolled back up to his feet, but looked terribly groggy. And beaten - he looked like he had a crown of blood, crimson covering his face like a mask even though the bite marks of the Thulu had healed over already. His nose had been broken, but it looked like it was already healing, and the bleeding had slowed to a trickle. Tentacles lashed blindly towards him, but Logan just slashed as a response, and sent another tentacle flying across the pit.

"He's going to do it again," a voice said, audible in the disgruntled silence of the crowd. Brendan looked, and saw the Ahtabai looking down at the pit with a razor thin smirk, his golden eyes glittering with something like mirth. "He's going to kill it." The Ahtabai seemed to find the prospect both impressive and funny as hell.

The Thulu threw itself at Logan, as if trying to squish him against the wall, but Logan dropped down and under the Thulu, rapidly punching the underside of the thing - no, not punching, stabbing, splattering himself with thick green blood as he tried to puncture something vital. It screamed again and grabbed Logan's ankle with one its intact tentacles, dragging him out and tossing him across the pit. But Logan used his claws this time to catch himself on the wall.

"Giles, we have to help him," he hissed in the ex-Watcher's ear.

"He doesn't need help."

"He doesn't know how to kill that thing."

"He already did."

Glancing at the television wall, he started to see what Giles was saying. The thing was still screeching and flailing, charging at Logan, but it was leaving a thick trail of green blood in its wake. Logan had punctured something vital; it was still going, but mostly on rage alone. Holy shit. Until this moment, Brendan hadn't been aware how hard his heart was pounding in his chest, or how tightly he was gripping the railing. Yes, this was Logan, and he should know he could handle all of this, but there was just something about a giant hairy demon that was all appendages and teeth throwing your friend into walls that made you instinctively cringe.

As the Thulu made its final lunge, Logan jumped off the wall and landed on top of the thing, plunging his claws into what could theoretically called its back. It bucked and threw Logan off, but that was all it had left. It struggled to stay on its tentacles, slipping in its own blood, and finally plopped down to the floor in a messy heap. Intact tentacles squirmed briefly, then fell slack.

The silence was absolute. So much so, he could hear Logan groan as he climbed to his feet and wiped both his blood and the Thulu's blood off of his face. His chest was now so spattered with red and green he could have been wearing a shirt. He rolled his neck from side to side, as if loosening it up, and the Hunhaus came out to clear out the corpse - but once again, Logan's gate didn't open. No; oh hell no.

Logan held his bloody arms out as if invitation, a shrug and a tacit "Come and get me" that made the demons in the crowd hiss and boo, and Brendan shook his head in disbelief. How much punishment could one man take? And he wasn't talking about Logan; he was talking about himself, having to just stand by and watch as the ugliest motherfucking demons he had ever seen tried to beat Logan to death. Everything in him screamed at him to jump in and help. He hadn't realized it would be so hard just to watch. He just assumed Logan would cut through them all without ever getting hurt. And even worse, he knew Logan would've called him an idiot. He knew he was going to get hurt when he agreed to this - Logan didn't care about pain. He couldn't be hurt any worse than he already had been. What a sad commentary that was.

"Make this interesting," the Ahtabai shouted, his voice oddly light, like this was amusing side show. "Open it up!"

The crowd roared in triumphant approval, and he turned to Giles, alarmed. If they liked it, it couldn't be good. "What does he mean by that?"

Giles looked slightly taken aback, and since that was almost the most emotion he'd ever seen him express, Brendan's stomach went into instant freefall. "It's a melee. All the remaining competitors against him."

"What?" He looked down sharply as the gates opened, and all the remaining demons swarmed out en masse, burying Logan in a sea of angry bodies.


	6. Part 6

Brendan was grabbing the railing so hard he was surprised he hadn't broken his own fingers yet. The crowd in the pit seemed to be churning from below, a violent scrum, and the only sign that Logan was still alive and fighting in there was the occasional flying limb - and Brendan had no idea if it was Logan responsible for that, or some other demon. There were more than a few that could have done it.

But a head flew like a tossed beach ball, and Logan surfaced, blood covered, wild eyed and snarling, claws flashing like a threshing machine; he looked just a tad demonic himself. He was slashing and kicking out at everything around him, not bothering with finesse, just disabling or destroying everything within reach. Demons grabbed his arms and held them back, but the demon that came rushing in got a solid kick in the chest that sent him flying into a couple more of his friends. Another came in from the side, but Logan got his legs around the thing's throat and twisted violently, breaking its neck.

The demons holding him had seen enough, and threw him down to the floor, where the demons piled on him like he was a free meal. Brendan looked away, not sure he could he could stand seeing any more, and the Ahtabai caught his eye. He was smiling, trailing a slender silver chain through his long fingers, and he said as an aside to one of his Frenik bodyguards, "Look at that dog. He's going to fight until he dies. What spunk. They don't make Humans like that anymore."

Brendan wanted to go over and kick his scrawny ass. What a patronizing thing to say, and more so since if he lost this fight, he was fucking dead. What did he expect him to do, cower in a corner and take it?

Logan did keep fighting, although Brendan simply didn't know how he did it. He was covered head to toe in blood, half of it his own and half of it from a variety of demons, and he couldn't tell how injured Logan actually was. There was no way to tell from his actions, as he had gotten one arm free, and that's all he needed. He sliced his way to complete freedom, and continued slashing through the horde - the pit had about an inch of blood in it now. But the scrum had thinned out appreciably, and the crowd was sounding more and more disgruntled and pissed off. The chant "Kill the Human!" had started up again, with renewed venom and vigor.

It didn't matter to Logan; if anything, it spurred him on even more. Once again, a demon grabbed him from behind, but Logan snapped his head back hard, a reverse head butt, that broke the demon's nose on impact. Logan spun free and sliced him in half straight through the middle.

The remaining demons teamed up on him, throwing him into the wall and trying to rip his limbs off, but that wasn't going to work - they couldn't rip through adamantium. When they tried to rethink strategy, Logan got free and cut the head off one of them. The other tried to break his neck, and got a claw right through his face, and out the back of his skull.

Brendan didn't know how he was still going. He had a huge diagonal gash across his chest, the left side of his face was ripped open, exposing his teeth and jaw, his back was so ripped up it looked like it was made of hamburger, and most of the flesh was missing from his right forearm, partially exposing an adamantium coated bone. But Logan was still fighting, and there weren't that many demons left. The "Kill the Human" chant was now more of a bitter grumble.

He sighed, relieved that Logan was probably going to survive this, but he could hardly stand to look at him. How could he keep going? In theory, a rapid healing factor was pretty cool, but in real life applications such as this, it seemed like a burden. His skin was peeled off his bones, and yet he was still going, still on his feet, and he could take even more damage, and would. Brendan was hurting for him at this point.

"This can't happen," one of the Freniks said. "A Human can't win this."

"He's got it," Giles said under his breath.

The last demon was another Ressik, and he went down hard, but went down he did. Logan left himself deliberately open to a gut shot, and as the Ressik tried to eviscerate him, Logan cut his skull in half, his primary brain node falling intact to the floor, on top of the remains of his former fellow contestants. Logan staggered back and hit the wall, bleeding from his face, chest, stomach, and arms, none of which looked liked it was healing. He was almost ankle deep in blood and offal now, and the stench was enough to make Brendan's stomach flip flop, but if Logan wasn't barfing, he wasn't going to either.

He seemed to catch his breath, and turned to spit out a mouthful of blood and teeth. Logan then wiped the first layer of blood off his face, and after a moment straightened up. "Next," he said, as blandly as a clerk at the department of motor vehicles.

Giles gaped down at him in shock. "Dear god. Either he wants to die, or he must have adamantium balls as well."

The crowd had been stunned into silence once more, yet it felt even deadlier than before. "Send out the winners of the previous matches," one of the Freniks urged his boss. "They'll finish 'im off. He can't have much more left."

The Ahtabai regarded him with cold eyes. "And waste this potential?" A thin cellular flip phone seemed to materialize in his hand, and he held it up to his face like it had belonged there all along. "Hello. There's been a very unusual development down at the pier. I have a fighter you just have to see to believe."

Giles put a hand on his shoulder, gently steering him towards the exit. "He's done it. We're in."

Terrific. Was Logan in any shape to enjoy it?

* * *

Outside, the demon crowd was loitering and talking of angry retribution, but if Logan had been selected by Brezakaran - which is what seemed to have occur - they couldn't touch him without invoking the wrath of Brezakaran, which was something they didn't want to do, no matter how much they hated him.

They walked out towards the end of the far end of the pier, towards the ad hoc parking lot, and Brendan didn't know why until he saw one of the shadows move. Oh yeah, their back up.

"How'd it go?" Angel asked. It was night now, but he stayed within the shadows of a derelict cannery, so none of the crowd could see him. A mob snitch could be anywhere.

"He proved his ability to cut a man in half, and get his face burned off but remain conscious was no fluke," Giles replied coolly. He was using a British type of sarcasm to cover up the fact that he really was kind of freaked out. And Brendan couldn't blame him, because he was too. "He did it. The lieutenant was impressed, and seems to be arranging a direct meet with Brezakaran."

Angel nodded, looking around warily. "Good. How is Logan?"

He and Giles shared a questioning glance before Giles admitted, "Slightly dismembered, but not willing to admit it. I'm sure he'll be fine."

Angel frowned at him in a slightly puzzled way. "Why don't you care, Giles? This is weird for you."

Giles gave him a look that was surprisingly scathing, and just a little bit angry. "Why? Because I know what he used to be."

"An assassin."

That seemed to briefly take him aback, but in that brief space of time, Giles only got angrier. "You knew then?"

Angel seemed resolute in the face of his inexplicable anger. "I'm not sure you know the entire story, Rupert."

"The entire story? I'm all for people trying to make amends for their past sins, but there is a limit. At least you were a vampire, a soulless beast only good for killing. He is a Human being, he had a choice."

"No he didn't. He was brainwashed. Why do you think he has no memories of his past? They took them away from him."

This had all the hallmarks of an uncomfortable argument, and the crowd had thinned out appreciably, so he decided to leave them to it. "I'm just gonna go see if he's out yet," he said, backing away. There was no obvious acknowledgement from Angel or Giles.

Well, those guys had some hidden issues, didn't they? Giles called him "only good for killing", and Angel didn't even blink. And Angel even called him Rupert, which was weird, mainly because he had no idea that was his first name - he thought it was Giles! And Giles knew Logan used to be an assassin, and pretty much resented him for it, but Angel was right there - it wasn't his fault. Giles may have been a demon expert, but he didn't know a damn thing about how truly fucked up the Organization was, or Logan's relationship with it. Maybe Angel could fill him in in a way that he would believe.

There was only one screener at the back door now, the red demon from before, his arm in a sling. Upon seeing him, he sneered, but Brendan decided to play it up, as that's what Matt would have done. "So, enjoy seeing my client get dismembered?"

The red guy glowered at him. "Don't piss me off, boy. You're still breakable."

"Come on, now. Give me some credit here. Do you think I'd represent just any old Human? C'mon, we demons have to have some kinda self-respect."

"Get the fuck away from me before I-" he stopped, as the door opened, and Logan came out. Man, he looked like hell. He'd put his torn tank top back on, but it was soaked through with blood - most of his wounds hadn't closed yet. Although it looked like at least half his cheek had grown back, as his teeth weren't visible through the side of his face anymore, and his exposed arm was now covered with a bloody bandage that looked like it was once a bar towel.

In spite of the fact that he looked like a dead man walking, he shot the red guy a challenging look, a tacit "Try me", and the guy didn't. Well, he couldn't, not if he was Brezakaran's now, but also there was the very real possibility he could still kick his ass, in spite of his injuries.

Still playing agent, he exclaimed, "Beautiful job, bubbula! You even scared the hell out of me."

Logan only grunted, but when they were out of ear shot, he whispered, "Bubbula?"

"Okay, that was too stereotypical, but I was in the moment. How are you?"

"I'm gonna pass out in a minute."

Well, at least it was fair warning.

They made it to the end of the pier, and the argument must have been over, because Giles and Angel met them looking unruffled, like Brendan hadn't left them debating whether Logan was an unrepentant psychopath or not. Angel was grimacing before he even saw him. "Jesus, how many demons did you have to fight?"

Logan shrugged, and almost stumbled because of it. "No idea. They became a blur after the first seven."

Brendan closed his eyes and counted all the ones he could see in his memories. Again, the only good thing about having an eidetic memory. "Including the single matches, twenty nine."

Angel hissed a breath through his teeth, an exclamation all the more strange because he didn't breathe. "Shit. They really were trying to kill you."

"Better people than them have tried." Not so much a macho response as a statement of fact in Logan's case.

Giles got them back on topic. Brendan couldn't tell if he was still giving Logan the cold shoulder or not. "The meet with Brezakaran - when is it happening?"

"I don't know. Legolas told me that they'd come get me when the boss was ready to see me. He didn't specify anything beyond that."

Legolas? Must be the Ahtabai demon. Hey, come to think of it, he did look a bit like an elf …

"Where did you tell him you lived?" Angel wondered.

"I didn't. I couldn't tell 'em I was stayin' at Bob's place, it would've tipped our hand, and I couldn't think of a motel. Didn't matter, though, he didn't ask me. He just said they'd find me - oh shit, adrenaline's gone." And with that curious statement, Logan's eyes rolled up in his head, and he pitched forward as if shot. Brendan grabbed his arm, but Angel actually caught him before he hit the pier, and he was glad, because he always forgot that Logan was a hell of a lot heavier than he appeared.

Even Angel seemed to struggle a bit as he slid Logan into position and hefted him up in a fireman's carry over his shoulder, and Brendan got a good look at Logan's back. He was still bleeding there too. "Okay," Angel said, once he had Logan settled over his shoulder. He had blood on his hands. "How could he find him if he doesn't know where he lives?"

The question was obviously aimed at Giles, who considered that a moment, staring at nothing. "Probably mystical tagging. It could happen to anyone who wins a match without their knowledge."

Angel nodded, as if that sounded perfectly reasonable. "A supernatural GPS. So they could show up to get him at any time."

Giles nodded in agreement, lips thinned to a grim line. "So we shouldn't bring him anywhere that might blow his cover."

"And I should stay away from him," Angel agreed, with regret. "So where do we take him?"

"The church?" Brendan suggested. "It's open to anyone, and it wouldn't be suspicious."

"The Stone Temple?" Giles repeated, mainly just to make sure. "Yes, that's mostly a demon church. Should be fine."

They headed off towards the place where Thrak was supposedly waiting with the cab, and Brendan brought up the rear, keeping an eye out for any blood that might be dripping from Logan and leaving a trail. If it was there, he couldn't discern it.

There were times when he wished he could forget some things. This was, he supposed, one of those times.

9

Logan knew something was wrong right away, but he wasn't sure if he cared or not.

He was laying on a bed in a small white room, with sunlight pouring through the single window. There was bird song outside, but it seemed to swell and fade randomly, with some native Canadian birds mixed in with ones native to South America and Japan. The walls were also generally bare, but occasionally something would appear - a painting, something impressionistic or perhaps a Japanese ink work - or an odd object, such as a neon palm tree or an oval mirror, but as soon as they appeared, they seemed to disappear like smoke. Sometimes the walls would change color as well, white changing to blue, then cycling to green, and switching to a pale violet before fading out to white once more. Only the window and the bed were unchanging. Curious. No, that was too mild a word - this was totally fucking weird.

He didn't move, because he felt achy and tired, and strangely hot and weak. He was healing, wasn't he? Yeah, he thought he could remember the demon pit fights, although everything got vague after the huge horde dog piled on him. After that, everything became a red, angry blur, and he was sure that he killed just about everyone he saw.

Suddenly he wasn't alone, and it didn't seem to be a surprise. Nor was it a surprise that it was Mariko, her hand cool and soft on his face, her scent comforting. Her long black hair tickled his face as she leaned over him, and her eyes, black and deep, seemed to bore into his. "I'm what you want," she said, her voice lilting at the end, as if it was almost a question.

"Yes."

She seemed to trace the contours of his face with her fingers, and he closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling, which was familiar and yet new. Yes, there was the problem.

He opened his eyes once more, and asked, "Are you real?"

"Of course I am."

He smiled sadly up at her as the ceiling turned colors once more, fading from brown to yellow. "No you're not. If you were really her, you'd have slapped my arm for asking that. And your eyes aren't right; they're too dark. You forgot the pupils." He still let his fingers trail up and down her arm anyways, enjoying the soft feeling of her skin. As simulations went, she was quite good, but far from perfect.

Still, this fake Mariko wasn't perturbed that he wasn't buying her act, or by the fact that the room continued to shift around them. "But she's all you want. She's in the dark spot of your mind."

"Why does the room keep shifting?"

"Your memories are slender; it's not enough to work by. All we can see is her."

We? He had no real experience trying to figure out how many mystery people were in his head at one time; usually there was just the one. He wondered why Bob's energy hadn't discouraged them, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that that slight glow of blue in the back of his mind wasn't there anymore. Had Bob withdrawn his energy from his mind? Why? Couldn't he have warned him he'd have no further protection from telepaths? Well, it was too late to worry about it now. "Who are you?"

"We are messengers. We are here to offer you her."

He was sure he'd heard her wrong, then feared he hadn't. "What? What the hell do you mean offer me her? She's dead."

"The dead can always be brought back. Of all people, you should know that. We can bring her back, as she was."

She kept her cool hand on his face, and he had a sudden urge to rip it off and break it in half. But he was still too tired to act upon it. "Only demons can be brought back like that, gods and demi-gods and demi-demons. You can't bring back a Human."

The fake Mariko gave him a slow, sharp smile that was far too knowing to be warm. "We can bring back anyone. There are no limits."

He didn't believe her; he couldn't afford to. "At what price? What do you want from me?"

She laid down next to him, resting her head in the hollow of his neck, and they both watched the room change. She remained warm and soft, and almost lifelike. "Nothing now. But when we ask you to do something, you must do it. If you do, we will bring her back. That's all."

Bullshit; complete and utter bullshit. _(But what if it wasn't?) _"You're a messenger for whom? Who is making this offer? How will I know you when the time comes?" He was starting to respond to her, even though he knew she was a fake, even though part of him wanted to snap her neck for using Mariko as a weapon against him. But he was still too tired to move. Which was probably not a coincidence.

"You will. Consider our offer well. We won't make it again." The fake Mariko raised herself up on her elbow to look down at him, her hand moving slowly across his chest, and she gave him a soft kiss on his cheek. He thought he saw the darkness in her eyes move, slither like snakes in the shadow, and he felt a shock of recognition, even though he wasn't sure how. He'd seen that before? Where?

He woke up, only to regret it instantly. Her scent lingered in his nostrils, as if she'd just been there, and his stomach knotted with a terrible desire, followed by a wave of sorrow and rage. He sat up, but regretted that too, as his back was still healing, and it fucking hurt. His head felt fuzzy too, and he was sure that if it wasn't telepathy, it was something like it.

For a moment, his disorientation was complete. He was in a gray, sunless room, the walls looked like granite, and there was no furniture at all, save for the day bed he was in and a small side table, upon which sat a clear plastic tumbler full of water. As soon as he felt strong enough, he slid to the edge of the bed, and after sniffing the water to make sure it was just that (yes it was), he gulped it down. It helped wash the taste of blood out of his mouth, and his throat was dry anyways. He'd probably need lots more liquid to make up for the blood loss.

Unwrapping the impromptu bandage on his forearm, he saw that it had mostly healed, the skin covering the would pink and smooth, the hair not grown in yet. He dropped the blood soaked towel on the floor, and only when he started his injury survey did he realize that someone had stripped him of his bloody clothes; he was down to blood spattered boxer shorts. _Was_ he wearing boxer shorts when he got dressed this morning? Or yesterday. What day was it?

He got up and looked around the room, but his clothes were nowhere to be found, nor were any others. Were they bringing them in later, or did they want him to go naked? He supposed he should see for himself, since this place didn't smell familiar.

The door fit flush into the wall, and there was no knob; it just opened on its own as he approached. Although he had parsed the air beforehand, he carefully looked down both sides of the hall, confirming he was alone. The hall was white and narrow, textured with stucco, and to his right it dead ended at a high window covered with heavy blue velvet curtains. On the left side, the hall curved away, and he followed it, wondering what the hell this was supposed to be. There was some vague déjà vu from when he woke up in Xavier's mansion, but not much; he had a sneaking suspicion that this was a natural extension of the pit fight.

But he was in another mansion. The hall led to a wrought iron stairwell that curved around and down in a delicate helix towards a wide white and gold marble floor. Since that seemed to be the main floor, he went down the stairs, the iron cold on his bare feet.

The closer he got to the main floor, though, the more he could catch glimpses of the furniture below. He saw Tudor style sideboards and cupboards, Art Deco style chairs, and old Hollywood memorabilia, including a glass framed poster of the Bride of Frankenstein in the foyer. At best, the style could be called eclectic, but it was all indicative of someone who had more money than taste. He wasn't too surprised to find a life sized werewolf model from some horror movie or another tucked into the corner leading to the drawing room. A bright Southern California sun was pouring in through all the windows, none of which were covered, so at least he knew he wasn't dealing with a vampire.

He heard a voice faintly, and followed it, feet padding silently on the cool, smooth floor. " - than two million and a cut of the back end, it's an insult," the man was saying. Since Logan heard no response, he guessed he was talking on the phone. "Yes, go ahead and tell Bill I said that. I'm not negotiating further until that's set in stone. Got it? Love you, darling." There was then the dull click of a cell phone being flipped shut, and a slight breeze led him to an open patio door, where a gauzy ivory curtain billowed in the anemic wind.

Clearing the curtain aside and stepping out, he found himself on a tiled patio in front of a massive swimming pool, full of water too blue to be natural. In a padded chaise lounge, beneath a huge umbrella springing from the center of a clear plastic table, was the guy he mentally dubbed Legolas the night before. He was a tall, slender demon, and now dressed in nothing more than blue swimming trunks, he looked even leaner. His skin had a slight golden undertone that seemed to glow in the reflected sunlight. He looked back at him, his fluffy white-blond hair looking moussed to the point of surrender. (Wasn't his hair a different color last night?) "Well well, good morning, champion," he said, with a false amiability. "You healed up nice, didn't you? Sure you're not part demon?"

"No. Where the fuck am I?" He couldn't consider a guy in swim trunks a threat, ever. He didn't know why, but that was that.Give him a death ray, and he would have felt the same way.

Legolas just smiled at him, but it was a kind of phony Hollywood smile that never reached his eyes. "You're in my house, and welcome to it. I hope we didn't teleport you out of any place interesting, but judging from your state, I kinda doubt your were partying. Hell of a thing last night, huh?"

He stared at him. What, did he think he didn't recognize that voice? "Let's make it interesting."

The demon had the good manners to grimace, but he didn't seem terribly sincere. "Nothing personal, hon, it's just you gotta keep the audience happy, you know? If the audience doesn't respect you, it can't love you."

He just glared at him, unable to believe this. "You're a fucking agent! You are, aren't you?"

He shrugged expansively, slender hands held apart, and he got up from his lounge chair with a strange, alien grace. "Guilty as charged. But hey, it's Los Angeles - every other person is in the business. Speaking of which, have you ever considered movies?"

Okay, things had gone from annoying to surreal. "What?"

"You're deliciously cut, and you have a kind of macho energy that's very retro. I mean nowadays, the metrosexual thing, the loose sexuality, is very hip. But if you have the charisma, you can make the '70's macho thing so unhip it's hip, if you know what I mean. You just have to be careful not to go too caveman, or too belligerent. One Crowe is enough, and frankly, Penn is too old to make it work for him, but he's still trying -"

He shook his head and turned away. "I'm leaving."

"Don't be like that, slugger," the demon agent said with an annoyingly light but chiding tone. "The boss is coming over to see you."

That made him pause and turn back. Jackpot. "The boss?"

"Yep. So you might want to clean up. You hungry? I'll have Carlotta whip up something. And you know, I'm serious. We have no big action stars, and you don't really need acting chops for films like that. You'd be perfect! And, you could do your own stunts, 'cause look how fast you heal! We just have to keep this whole mutant thing under wraps, 'kay? 'Cause the public just isn't down with that. What's your full name?"

He scowled at him. Why did people like him assume everyone wanted to be in show business? Maybe agents were a specific demon breed - that would explain a hell of a lot. "Heywood Jablowmi," he snapped, stalking back through the open door and into the mansion. He supposed he could go back upstairs and find some clothes somewhere in one of the upper rooms. Whether or not they'd fit would be a different story entirely.

He heard Legolas click his tongue like a ticked off librarian. "Now that is just crude. But you know, we could make that work for you -"

Oh Christ. Could he keep from killing him before Brezakaran showed up? That would be the million dollar question.


	7. Part 7

He found some clothes in another upstairs room that he could live with, although he felt rather silly. They were just jeans, yeah, nothing special about them, but they were apparently designer, and probably cost more than his entire last wardrobe combined. Combined with all the clothes he actually owned, and others he borrowed, across his entire life span. Who were these greedy ass people charging more than twenty dollars for a pair of jeans, and how could he get a cut of that action?

The shirts he didn't like; the shirts he hated. Didn't this guy own any t-shirts? Eventually he found, still in a plastic bag, a promotional t-shirt for a movie he never heard of. He put it on, and because it was a large, it fit.

The smell of eggs brought him back downstairs, and it led him to the kitchen, where a matronly middle aged Hispanic woman (Carlotta) was cooking breakfast. She asked him what he wanted, and he was going to tell her nothing, but his stomach rumbled hungrily - the eggs smelled good.

So he sat at the butcher block island in the middle of the stainless steel kitchen, and ate some of the best huevos rancheros he had ever had while talking to her in her native Spanish. She seemed surprised - and then nervous - when he started speaking to her in her language, especially since he was asking about her employer, but then she loosened up a bit when she realized he wasn't going to report on her to him.

She really liked working for "Mr. Gold" (cute, what with his vaguely gold skin). Apparently he was the nicest, most fair boss she'd ever worked for. She said she'd worked for some famous people who were a bit "nutty" and threw parties where things happened that she wasn't comfortable with, but that had never happened the whole five years she had been working here. He liked her to be here from ten to five every day, and that was it. She made meals, froze a lot of them so he could have them later on his own time, and that was it. He never called her from home or asked her to do things she didn't want to, and he was never mean to her. He was also one of the naturally neatest men she'd ever worked for, and paid her well. As far as she had seen, he didn't have a mean bone in his body.

All rather funny, in an ironic way. Treated badly by Humans, she'd found a kind of respite with a demon. He wasn't sure he could ask her right out if she knew he was a demon - he suspected she didn't - so he danced around it by asking if she thought he looked a little funny. She just shrugged, said his ears were "unusual", but then mentioned a cousin down in San Luis Obispo who had a funny shaped head due to forceps used by a doctor when he was an infant. So she figured stuff like that just happened.

She was nice; he liked her. Even though, when he went to the stainless steel fridge to find a beer, she smacked him with a dish towel and informed him that no one was drinking before noon in her kitchen. He had to settle for bottled water, which was not the same at all. But the tortillas with the huevos rancheros were made from scratch, and really, really good. She made enough for three people, but he ended up eating it all. She didn't seem to mind - she said this stuff didn't freeze up too well anyways.

By the time Gold came to fetch him, he was full and in a much better mood. Also, he was less homicidally inclined towards him, if only for Carlotta's sake.

Gold was wearing pants too, which again made him a bit more forgiving. He was wearing slim, beige colored tailored slacks, and a loose, slightly gauzy pale blue shirt that was probably designer and really expensive, but made him look a little bit like a back up dancer for someone's Las Vegas review. He was decked out in platinum too, the trappings of wealth; his watch, several rings, and an earring all glittered flat silver. "Are you ready to meet the boss, Logan? He's ready to meet you."

He sighed, and finished up his second bottle of water, missing beer desperately - but he knew very well you didn't piss off a woman in her own kitchen, not if you wanted to walk upright for the rest of your life. He thanked Carlotta for the meal, meaning it (why did rich people always eat the best? It didn't seem fair ...), and Gold gave her a polite nod before they left the kitchen.

"Isn't she a sweetie?" Gold said, as soon as they were in the dining room.

He nodded in agreement, because it was true. "She's a great cook, too."

"Oh, I know. A lot of my friends don't get why I eat Human food, but they just haven't had the right Human food. It's not all McDonald's and Twinkies."

Was that the demon view of Human food? No wonder most of them hated Humans. He would too.

Gold seemed to be leading him into the back of his expansive house. As they passed more movie memorabilia - a life sized Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz, next to what purported to be a framed script from Casablanca - he asked, "So what's your boss like? Who is he?"

It was subtle, but Gold seemed to stiffen just slightly, his posture grow more rigid. Was he afraid of his boss? (That wasn't a good sign, was it?) "He's a very ... important man. He has big plans, which is why he needs fighters like you."

"I'm still not sure I get it." Also, he hadn't heard anyone arrive, and he was sure he would have, no matter how big this place was. So either this was some kind of conference call (unlikely) or magic or teleportation was involved (more likely).

"Oh, you will. I'm sure he'll answer all your questions." He came to a stop in front of a door that looked like a vault. There was no knob, nothing that indicated a way to open the door, until Gold put his hand flat on its surface. After a moment, there was a hum, and his hand seemed to sink into the door, like the metal was becoming mercury beneath his fingers.

The liquid metal of the door swallowed his hand up to the wrist, but there was no reaction from Gold at all. Finally, after a long moment, the door seemed to dissolve, evaporating like a mirage. "You can never be too careful," Gold told him, with a sheepish grimace.

There was nothing beyond the former door. Just a living, pulsing darkness that seemed to breathe. It gave off a whiff of stale, moist air, redolent of mold and … something else, something Logan couldn't place. All he knew was it was hot and vaguely metallic, like there was a garbage fire in a smelter. It wasn't wildly comforting.

Gold stood aside and gestured towards the darkness. "He just wants to see you this time."

Logan eyed him warily. "Uh huh. And I'm supposed to believe this isn't a trap?"

Gold shrugged with his hands. "Why would we go to all this trouble if we were just going to kill you?"

That was a point, but demons could be really perverse; they could have kept him alive so far just to yank the rug out from under him now. Still, he'd come this far - he couldn't possibly pussy out now. Besides, if the guy wanted to kill him, it wasn't like he was defenseless.

He took a deep breath, hands clenched into fists at his side so he could pop his claws quickly if he had to, and stepped into the black room.

He had expected an attack.

He hadn't expected to fall straight down into nothing.

10

Since he'd been gone, t.v. had gotten really bad.

Or so it seemed, anyways. Angel hadn't slept well, and it was too damn sunny when he got up, so he was forced to stay in his room. Oh, he'd done a little searching, and actually found what looked like a sewer access in a part of the hotel that was technically off limit to guests, but for some reason, he didn't want to venture out yet. He needed to be here mainly because the Brezakaran investigation was still ongoing, and if he had guys out there, he didn't need them to identify him as being back, which might cause problems that they didn't need right now.

It had nothing to do with what some smart ass would probably diagnose as depression. Nor was it the conflicted feelings brought out by Logan's blood on his hands. (Damn, his blood smelled good. It wasn't like normal blood; it was like the Red Bull of Human blood …)

And it turned out he had been gone so long that he couldn't follow his soap opera anymore. How shitty was that? Not that he was a big soap opera watcher or anything, he really didn't have much time to watch t.v., and he generally preferred books anyways, but sometimes he'd watch this one … if he was up, and couldn't sleep, and didn't have anything better to do.

So he tried to watch it, but he didn't recognize half the cast, or a good third of the character names, and one character had been replaced by an actress about twenty years younger than the previous one! So he just flipped around, and was just astonished by the amount of crap - there really was nothing to watch. Eventually he came to the Sci-Fi Channel and an X-Files repeat, and left it on, because it was one of their better episodes.

He needed to hit a bookstore tonight. He missed his books. He used to have an incredible collection of books; he even had a copy of Candide signed by the author. But now he had nothing - no home, no possessions, and worst of all, no friends. He tried very hard not to dwell on the fact that all his friends had been killed for almost nothing, and yet he hadn't died. It was hardly new, was it? People died around him all the time, and sometimes he was even the one to kill them. He was undead, and that was just part of the deal. He thought he'd gotten inured to it, or at least used to it, but it was a lie. No he wasn't - he just wished he was. That was the problem of being in the world. You cared about people, and you let them down, and they broke your hearts, and they died, and sometimes you ended up standing in the ruins, wondering where everything went so wrong. Again.

He couldn't brood about it, he knew that, but it too was hard not to do. But he had no right to feel sorry for himself. He took a shower, just to give himself something to do since he wasn't sleeping. He still remembered coming back with blood on his hands, and being so tempted by the smell. He hesitated far too long before he made himself wash his hands, as aggressively as an obsessive-compulsive.

He considered ordering room service - yeah, they didn't have blood, but he could eat Human food from time to time, if not exactly enjoy it as much as he did when he had genuine Human taste buds - but that seemed like a waste of time. He couldn't eat; his stomach was a knot. He needed to sleep, but couldn't; he needed to feed, but couldn't. He needed not to be alone with his thoughts, but he couldn't escape them. If this wasn't purgatory, it was a damn good imitation.

Finally there was a knock at the door, totally unexpected, and yet he was ashamed at how quickly he bounded off the bed, eager for the company. God, what was he, a puppy? He _really_ needed to get some books, or a hobby, badly. Better yet, he needed to find a more stable place to stay, one with less windows, or at least heavier curtains. This place was just too in love with its sea view.

He opened the door to find Brendan standing there, in his painfully young Human guise. "Hey. Hope I didn't wake you."

"No, no … just got up," he lied, standing aside to let him in. "What's up?"

Brendan was a good looking kid, one who could have passed for Human entirely if his eyes weren't always Brachen red, and he reminded him of Doyle in more ways than one, except he was much more confident in his fighting abilities. Doyle was a reluctant fighter, at best; Brendan seemed a little too eager to throw himself into things. The cockiness of youth, perhaps. He could hardly remember; for him, that was centuries behind him. Either way, the kid reminded him enough of Doyle that he felt almost unbearable guilt just looking at him.

Brendan waited until he closed the door before he spoke. The kid was too young to be this experienced. "I just thought you should know that Logan disappeared this morning."

He wasn't surprised - they were expecting something like that. "When?"

He shrugged, faking nonchalance very well. He had a big time crush on Logan, that was obvious, but Angel wasn't completely sure if he wanted to date him, or just be like him. Could have gone either way. "Dunno. I was sleeping; I just woke up and found him missing. I called Giles, and he said he was working on tracing him now. He'll call me when he gets a hit."

Since Logan had been mystically tagged, it was decided last night that they would "tag" Logan as well, so Giles could cast a locator spell and find him wherever he was taken, as it was assumed they'd use a teleportation spell to retrieve him. It was much safer than sending someone around to pick him up.

Brendan looked around his hotel room, as if expecting something to be different from the last time he was here. "So what's the plan if we find him? I mean, do we go rushing to his rescue, or what?"

That was something he and Giles hadn't quite come to a resolution about last night. "No. It's going to depend on where he is. If he appears to be in immediate danger, we'll move, but otherwise, we'll just wait until Logan contacts us - and he will - and go from there. We can't assume that Brezakaran has the object with him at all times, so if we rush in too early, we may lose our chance at it."

He sighed heavily. "So we wait?"

"Afraid s-" he stopped as Brendan's cell phone went off, and he pulled it out of his pocket and answered it breezily. "Yeah?"

He suddenly got a strange look on his face, and replied, "Uh, hi Helga, what's goin' on?"

Helga? Oh, right, the Stansin demon that was Bob's current girlfriend. What was she doing calling him? Was Bob finally joining the party?

Brendan listened, the confused look never quite leaving his face, and he nodded absently. "Okay, yeah, I'll tell him. See you soon." He flipped his phone closed, and asked, "Do you know a woman named Naomi?"

He was surprised mainly by the non-sequitur nature of the question. "Naomi? N - wait a second. Naomi Deschanel? Yeah, I do. What about her?" There was a blast from the past - Logan's former girlfriend. There was some suspicious timing there, wasn't there? Was Bob up to his tricks again?

"She's at the Way Station. Apparently Bob gave her the address and a "pass" so she could find the place if she ever needed to. She's looking for you."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "That's all Helga told me. Who is she? Somebody we should be worried about?"

Good lord, how well had Logan trained him? "No. She's an old girlfriend of Logan's, a mutant."

That seemed to pique his interest. "Really? What's her power?"

"She controls electricity. She can absorb it, shoot it, make it obey her will, things like that."

His eyes widened appreciably. "Really? Wicked! Now why didn't I get a cool power like that? I can just remember every fucking thing. Why did I get the lame ass power?"

He shrugged. "It's not lame. It could be useful …"

"Like when? When I need to testify in court?" he rolled his eyes and made a negative noise. "Yeah, that's something. In the team where one guy has laser eyeballs, another can heal from any physical blow, another controls the weather, and the leader is the most powerful telepath known to Humankind, I'm the guy who can remember every single digit on a license plate. Ooh, I'm really going to get the chicks then, huh?" He sighed impatiently, and then asked, "Does she have a code name?"

"Yes." Only after he answered did he realize he should have lied. Crap.

"What?"

Oh damn it. "Electra."

Brendan reacted just as he expected, staring at him in disbelief. "What! Oh man, she even has a cooler code name than me! This just sucks …"

"If it's anything, Logan would probably love to have your power."

That made Brendan pause, and go strangely quiet, as he thought it might. Sometimes you just needed to put things in perspective.

He'd have to remember that for himself.

* * *

He used the basement sewer access to reach the Way Station, and even though he told Brendan to go ahead and use the surface to get there ahead of him, he insisted on coming with him. At least he got to keep an eye on him that way.

In spite of the fact that it was afternoon, or possibly because of it, the bar was pretty busy. Some demons must have recognized him on sight, as they glared daggers at him, or moved towards the door. Naomi was easy to spot. Not because she was the only Human, but because Helga was keeping her company on the next bar stool, probably making sure that none of the demon clientele would bother her or think she was a snack. Demons would do a lot of things, but piss off Helga was generally not one of them. "Well, look who's back from oblivion," Helga said to him as he reached the bar. She slid off the stool and stepped aside, so Naomi could see him.

Naomi hadn't changed much from the last time he'd see her. Her hair was now slightly longer and chestnut brown, but it looked good on her. She was wearing sneakers, blue jeans, a purple silk camisole tank top, a light jacket of some synthetic fiber that gleamed as black as oil, and black suede gloves. While the gloves looked a bit funny in this weather, she could accidentally shock people, so he supposed she was trying to minimize that possibility. She gave him a smile that seemed tired. "Angel. I'm so sorry to bother you."

"No, it's no bother." She gave him a brief, friendly hug, and he excepted it, mainly because he didn't know what else to do. He then took a seat, and gestured to Brendan, who took the stool next to his. "Uh, Naomi, this is Brendan. Brendan, Naomi."

"Hey," he said, with a friendly nod.

"Hi," she said, a little uncertainly. She was probably wondering why he had a teenager tagging along with him, especially now. "I'm interrupting something, aren't I?"

"No, not at all. Brendan and I are just working on something together … with Logan, and a friend of mine."

"Logan's here too?" She replied, more curious than anything else. He searched for recognition in her eyes, and didn't find it. No, she still barely knew who Logan was, and probably still thought of him as nothing but one of his friends. Presumably Logan had never told her of their love affair, even though she had every right to know. But he knew that Naomi taking the hit from Lethe instead of him - and losing so many years of her life - was a guilt that he found almost unbearable. He supposed he could sympathize, since he had the younger ersatz Doyle sitting on his immediate right.

"In town, yes. So why are you here? I thought you were living on the East Coast."

She shrugged, looking down at her drink, which smelled like coke and vodka. "I was. But … you know, I got really bored. I mean, so incredibly bored I thought I was going to die. And I knew you lived out here, so I figured fuck it, I'd come see how you were doing. Besides, everyone wants to go to L.A., don't they?"

Angel could only shrug. Maybe. He never really thought about it. And now that he'd been here long enough, he wondered why anyone ever came here at all.

After a moment, once Interpol faded to a background drone, she asked, "So what are you guys involved in? Maybe I can help. I've been itching to do something. Hell, anything. As long as stripping isn't involved."

"Well, um, thanks, but -"

"What, is it a demon thing?"

He stared at her in shock. She never knew he was a demon; she knew nothing about demons. Even if Logan had told her before Lethe robbed her of her memories, she wouldn't remember it … unless she got her memories back? "How did you know that?"

"Bob told me. It's okay. I thought it would be really weird and hard to accept, but for some reason, it was really easy. In fact, it made a lot of sense."

Oh, Bob. That should have been his first guess. "When - when did you last see Bob?"

"I don't know … a couple months ago. Why? Where is he, by the way?"

"We have no idea," Angel admitted, trying not to let his glee at the thought shine through. What the hell was Bob up to? Why couldn't he ever just come out and say something, or do something directly? Why did he have to play these stupid little chess games with people? And if he knew what was going to happen so far in advance that he could line his players up, then why not just do something to prevent it in the first place?

What was he thinking - this was Bob, wasn't it? Mr. Perversity.

What was it with the Powers That Be and their oblique natures? They couldn't do or say anything directly. It was all cryptic phrases and fragments of "prophecies", manipulations of chaos and rumors of destiny. In the end, it was just them mucking about with people. They were like a little kid with one of those old ant farms, who just shook it up now and again to see what the things would do. And when they did what the Powers wanted, sometimes they'd give you a cookie. Or bring you back to life, as the case may be.

He was bitter, wasn't he? He knew he couldn't get bitter, as bad things usually came from that, but sometimes it was really hard to avoid it. Especially when he'd had nothing to do all day but think about it.

Brendan's cell phone went off once more, and he answered it quickly, mostly because he was probably picking up on the general tenseness in the conversation. "Yes?" After a moment, he handed the phone to him. "He wants to talk to you."

Angel took it, and he assumed the small crackle of static was due to his proximity to Naomi. Sometimes she was too electric to help it. "Yeah Giles?"

He didn't waste any time with pleasantries. "We have a problem."

How long ago had he learned to hate it when Giles said that?


	8. Part 8

11

He hit the ground so hard and so fast, he momentarily regretted having had such a big breakfast.

He tried to get his legs under him, but the fall was too fast, and strangely disorienting, so he settled for getting his arms up in front of his face. As it turned out, it was barely in time; he hit what felt like a stone floor hard, but it was generally absorbed by his skeleton, which could certainly take the blow.

He felt something dry and tepid scrape slowly alongside his right arm, and looked up, aware it was a huge boa constrictor. He guessed he was supposed to be scared, but he wasn't; he couldn't honestly be afraid of animals, be they mammals or reptiles or other. Animals had no ability to generate intentional malice; they were creatures of pure instinct. Only Humans - and demons, of course - could be malicious.

Logan raised himself up to his knees, and looked around. There wasn't much to see - the darkness was Stygian, thick enough to be nearly solid, and it might have been, since even his sharp eyesight couldn't see through it. He could only see about twenty feet around him within a small circle, that seemed lined with tiny ivory bones, and small braziers were at five points around the circle, pouring dark smoke up into the warm, stale air. It generally smelled like sulfur and charcoal, with a hint of sweat and something that smelled not unlike crab meat. The boa was maybe twenty feet long, almost as thick as his arm, and it ignored him completely, as he suspected it would. He had no idea where it went; the darkness seemed to swallow it whole.

He got up, stretching to work the kinks out of his back, and said to the blackness, "Too scared to show yourself? Some big bad guy you are."

There was a noise like the rumble of an old dump truck with a badly tuned engine, but he soon realized it was actually a laugh, one that surrounded him, seemed to be coming from above him and all sides. God, was all of Los Angeles into show business bullshit? "You're a cocky Human, aren't you?" A voice said. It was deep as the voice of the singer in the Sisters of Mercy, and magnified about fifty times, so it sounded like the voice was coming from a giant with a baritone that would make James Earl Jones weep. It could shake the earth, break the sky. It would intimidate most people … well, most who didn't hear the faintest metallic buzz of a voice modulator and what was probably an amplifier of some sort. "But I should have known that from the fight last night. 'Next'. Have you no fear at all? You should."

"Should I, Darth?" He scoffed and shook his head, pacing around the edge of the circle. The closer he got to the boundaries delineated by the bones, the more the hair on his arms stood on end. There was some kind of field, a spell, something to keep him from going outside it. He did notice one thing interesting, though - the closer he got to the smoke, the more he smelled that sulfuric, demon-y smell. Ah, so literal smoke and mirrors, huh? "Do you think I'm an idiot? I've been around demons long enough to know when I'm bein' hit with mumbo jumbo. And that's what all of this is." He ran his hand along the unseen barrier, feeling something like water tension charged with static electricity. The more he pushed against it, the more it stung; he was roughly certain he could take it, but he might lose a layer of skin or two. Still, he wasn't going to push through it until he knew for certain what was on the other side.

"Is it now?" There was a gloating tone in his artificially pumped voice that should have served as warning, but he had no time to react.

It wasn't that a physical something hit him, but a spell that hit like a fucking lightning bolt. He felt it first in his spine, and it dropped him down to the floor as his nerves seemed to scream, feeling like a million razor blades were slicing him up from the inside out, bursting through arterial walls and cutting deep into muscle and sinew …

… for almost a minute. Then it stopped, fading almost as quickly as it hit. "Tell me more about mumbo jumbo," the voice said.

He chuckled as the pain trailed off, aware he should be angry, but unable to muster it up. Maybe because this was so pathetic. "The scent isn't yours."

That seemed to puzzle him. "What?"

"This smell, this demonic reek, it's coming from the smoke." He rolled over and started the slow climb to his feet again. Man, did his body hate his guts right now. "Which leads me to a couple of possibilities. You knew about my ... well, super smell, whatever the fuck you wanna call it ... and wanted to conceal your real scent from me, or this is just a general scare tactic, something that you thought would make a Human shit their pants in fear. How close am I?"

There was an ominous pause before he replied. Okay, he'd pissed the guy off; he had no idea he had such a sharp sense of smell. "They're needed for the ritual."

"Are they now?" Bullshit. Okay, people used weird things for spells, and sulfur and charcoal could in fact be very popular ingredients, but eau du shellfish? No way. Unless someone was trying to resurrect some clams or something.

"You seem to be implying a knowledge of black magic. Is that what kept you alive in the pit?"

"Would I have ever gotten hurt? Fuck you. I can't cast a damn thing, but I've been around the block enough to know when someone's putting the whammy on me. And this is starting to strike me as a real Wizard of Oz moment." Maybe there was a reason that Gold had a Tin Man in the hall - it was a warning.

"As a what?"

"Ignore the man behind the curtain! You said you wanted to meet me, but you're hiding behind this smokescreen. Somewhat literally." He shook his head dismissively. "Let me outta here. I'll only meet with you face to face. I ain't fallin' for this David Copperfield shit."

The sound of snakes hissing increased, and the deep voice dropped another register. "You leave when I say you can leave. Your arrogance was initially amusing, but now you're annoying me."

"Back at ya, asshole."

The darkness seemed to move, waver like a mirage, and he kicked over one of the braziers to see if he hit something flammable on the other side. He didn't, so he moved on to another one. After he kicked that one over, snakes started to pour into the circle at all sides.

Not boas this time, things that could strike fear into him (supposedly) by size alone, but more instantly deadly type of snakes: colorful copperheads, black cobras, brown rattlesnakes, black mambas, pit vipers and fer de lances. It was a swarm, maybe fifty, possibly a hundred, strangely unaware of the other breeds. Was this supposed to scare him too?

He decided to show him. He sat down cross legged on the floor, and let the snakes come. He let them slither over him, dry scales scraping his arms once more, and while they quested over him, forked tongues darting out to taste the scents in the air, he didn't move, and none were inclined to strike him just yet. They could; their venom wouldn't kill him, just make him briefly sick. He wanted to say he also knew - kind of - a snake god, or at least a god made out of snakes, but that was too much information, and might give up the game.

One of the copperheads worked its way under his shirt, and strangely enough it felt kind of good, in a really odd sort of way. At least snakes weren't slimy. Finally the voice said, with a contemptuous tone, "You're going to be trouble, aren't you?"

"Don't waste my time," he told him. "You can't impress me with parlor tricks. I'm not some normal Human who just blundered into this. I'm a mutant who's spent his whole life on the fringes of society, just like a demon. I'll go in with you as an equal, but don't waste my time otherwise. If I wanted party tricks, I'd go to the Magic Castle. Comprende?" His legs were almost buried by snakes now, their slim, colorful bodies meshing and intertwining, a couple working their way up his pant legs, but no one had bit him. Again, he wondered if knowing a snake god bought him some kind of cache here, or if it was just the fact that he wasn't letting off a fear scent, and hadn't made any sudden moves.

After an even longer silence, there was that low chuckle again. "I don't know whether to kill you or kiss you," he said (disturbingly), and Logan felt suddenly yanked up, as if a giant invisible hand had grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. The snakes fell away, and he was in complete darkness.

For a moment. Then he saw daylight as he was thrown roughly into the hall of Gold's mansion, and once he stopped rolling, he looked back and saw the metal door was back in place, as solid as ever.

He was still on the floor when Gold came up, a martini glass in one hand. "So, how'd it go?" he asked casually.

Logan stared up at him in slight disbelief, but then figured everybody must have gotten the boot like that. "He's a total prick," he growled, pushing himself up to his hands and knees. "He's not sure if he should kiss me or kill me."

"Ooh, you've impressed him. Good show." He took a sip of his martini and walked away, back down the hall. He was out of sight when he called back, "And we really have to talk about getting you a contract, sunshine. With the boss's backing, I know I can get you a three picture deal at Fox just like that." He snapped his fingers in audio demonstration.

This assignment was turning out to be much more of a pain in the ass than he bargained for.

12

The good news was Logan must have been close to the object. The bad news was that Giles knew that because he'd disappeared off the radar in the exact same way. "I thought you said you could find him through a cloaking spell," Angel said, a bit annoyed. It really wasn't Giles' fault - he could kick up one of the strongest spells around; he could probably qualify as a bush league sorcerer if only they let ex-Watchers in the guild - but it was still an uncomfortable feeling. Yes, Logan could take care of himself, almost better than anybody he had ever known (where was he when they were going after the Black Thorns?), but he didn't like the idea of leaving him alone out there, with gods knew what. If it came down to the physical, no problem - but spellcasters of that ability never let it get down to the physical. Logan could be dead before he even thought about closing the distance.

"A normal one, yes," Giles replied snappishly. He was obviously frustrated and annoyed himself. "And a strong one, which leads me to think this is something else entirely."

"Like what?"

"Either a spell unlike one I've encountered before, or a pocket dimension. I can't find him if he's not here."

That flabbergasted him for a moment. Holy shit, that thought never even occurred to him. "Do you realize what you're saying? A pocket dimension can only be created by -"

"- a god, yes I know, or a demon powerful enough to destroy us all. But it is possible - remotely, but still - that a very skilled magic practitioner was able to exploit the artifact to open a pocket."

Angel sighed, rubbing his eyes, hearing Brendan ask quietly, "What's gone wrong now?"

It did seem to be a common occurrence, didn't it? It seemed to be the one thing they could count on. He made a quieting hand gesture, and hoped he'd live with that for now. "So what do we do?"

It was Giles' turn to sigh heavily in frustration. "There's nothing we really _can_ do. Just wait for Logan to come out of it."

"And what if he doesn't?"

There was a long pause - way too long. It made him nervous as hell. Giles getting stumped was always a really bad sign. "Then we'll go to plan B," he finally said.

"We have a plan B?" It was news to him.

"Well … no, but we still have time to come up with one."

Angel heard, somewhere near the front of the bar, a demon gasp, "Look at that sky. What the hell's going on? Did somebody schedule another apocalypse?"

He looked over to where he heard the guy, and saw that the bar door was open, looking out on the street. He instinctively cringed, but realized that there was no need, as it was as dark as night out there. "What time is it?" he asked Giles, sliding off his stool and approaching the door. Brendan and Naomi followed him, and because he wasn't exactly beloved by the demon community, they made a grudging path for him and his friends.

"Three forty four. Why? What's going on?"

The sky wasn't dark, but a curious bruise purple, with thick black clouds like flattened out thunderheads. There wasn't a single ray of light; it could have very well been night. "Is it sunny where you are?" he wondered.

"Yes, why would -" his pause was so abrupt, he knew Giles had just looked out his window. "Good lord. Is this the prelude to a tornado?"

"I was thinking more like a cataclysmic electrical storm."

Naomi stuck her face out into the wind, as if scenting the air, and said, "No, it's not electrical. I'm not sensing an above average electrical build up."

Brendan looked at her in amazement. "You can feel electricity?" She nodded, and he asked, "Can you control lightning bolts?"

"I can't make the clouds discharge," she admitted, so quickly Angel was sure this meant she had tried it before. "But once they do discharge, I can control the direction of the bolt."

Brendan let out a small gasp of awe. "Kick ass."

Angel took a deep sniff, and proclaimed, "It smells like snow." Which was generally alarming, because it didn't snow in Los Angeles any more than it snowed in the Bahamas. But the Powers That Be presumably made it snow once in Sunnydale . Still, he didn't think the PTBs had anything to do with this.

"It's getting worse," Giles said wearily. He meant the reality breaches, of course. So if this was someone else's weather, did that mean a perpetually cold and dark dimension was now being flooded with heat and sun? That couldn't be pleasant for those life forms.

Angel slammed his fist hard against the doorjamb, but not hard enough to hurt the frame. God, this was so frustrating. Bad shit was happening, and they could do nothing but stand by and watch helplessly. "We can't just -"

"Wait a second," Giles interrupted, sounding distracted. After a few seconds, he came back on the line. "Logan's back. I've just picked him up in Los Felis."

"Seriously?" It wasn't that he doubted Giles' abilities, just that Los Felis was an odd place for both Logan and Brezakaran to be. It was an upscale area, mostly known as the location of many a wealthy star's extravagant homes, and Brezakaran, who preferred to impress demons with his wealth as opposed to competing directly with actors and producers, used to live in East L.A., in what must have been the largest and best maintained condo on the entire east side. After he had killed him - he shoved him out a fourteenth story window, where his penthouse was located (and even though he was a Matabiri demon with a blistered hide as thick as a rhino's, there was no way he could survive a fall like that, and Angel _knew_ that he didn't; he'd seen his skull split open, his brains splattered on the street like road kill) - the condo was bought and razed, and he believed an El Polo Loco now sat on the site. That might have pissed Brezakaran off, but he didn't seem the type to pack up and move to Los Felis. It just didn't fit his modus operandi, not to mention his personality. He liked to gloat; he wouldn't want to compete with actors and musicians who made more than him.

"Without a doubt. We should wait until he contacts us."

"Yes, we should. See you later," he agreed, and gave Brendan back the phone, as he had no idea how to hang up the bloody thing.

Brendan seemed to understand that, and cut the connection before pocketing the phone. "So we're actually gonna do something stupid, aren't we?"

He stared at the kid. Yeah, he was far too worldly by half. "We, kemosabe?" He locked his eyes on Naomi, and said, "Brendan will take you to Giles. He's a friend of mine, and I think you should meet him, he can bring you up to speed on what's going on. I'll meet you there later."

She nodded, still too confused to be rebellious. But Brendan scowled at him, his eyes scolding and angry. Angel ignored it as he headed out, into the sudden pseudo-night. The temperature had dropped almost forty degrees from the time they entered the bar, and the wind had come up, with a chilling bite as sharp as a knife blade. Finally the dusters he liked to wear paid off in practicality as he raised his collar against the sudden cold, shrugging deep inside his jacket. You knew the cold was bad if a vampire could feel it.

He was two blocks away, wondering if he should call a cab (no, he didn't know where in Los Felis Logan was, but he was roughly certain he could smell him if he got close enough, or smell Brezakaran, or just recognize Brezakaran's rather tacky sense of style), when he heard footsteps pounding the pavement behind him. A glance over his shoulder revealed Brendan jogging up. He stopped and frowned at the boy. "What did I tell you -"

"You told me shit," he replied sharply, his words becoming clouds in the air between them. "I asked Helga to take Naomi over to Giles. I'm coming with you."

"The hell you are. I'm not going to fight, I just want to see where he is."

"Me too. I'm good at sneaking, and I can pass for a pool boy. Can you?"

Again, this kid was too good. "What did they teach you at that mutant school anyways?"

"They didn't teach me any of this," he argued. "I've been a street kid, like, forever. You learn to survive, or you die. Simple as that. And a lot of times, survival hinges on successfully pretending to be something you're not."

Yes, sadly that was generally true. He didn't think that Brendan's streetwise knowledge was enough to save him if push came to shove, but he could get by for now. Still, he didn't want a sidekick, and certainly not one so young and vulnerable, no matter how tough he thought he was. He had a lot to learn, he just didn't know it yet.

They covered another couple of blocks in silence, and Angel was about to ask the kid if he had access to wheels, when he heard a faint but relatively close "pop". There were more of the sounds in a row - pop pop pop - accompanied by screaming. Gunshots, muffled by walls.

Brendan heard it to, posture going ramrod straight, looking around in feral alertness. Although he was still in Human face, a hint of green swam beneath its surface. "Where did it come from?" he asked.

"Next block," he said, breaking into a run. Brendan came running right after him, like he was afraid he would.

There were gunshots coming from a Safeway on the corner of the following intersection, which immediately struck Angel as odd. It might be a good spot for a robbery, but most robbers just took the money and ran. And they rarely sported automatic weapons, which is exactly what it sounded like - the firearm in use was automatic or semi-automatic, spitting out bullets faster than a Human could breathe.

Angel charged in the door - as much as you could actually "charge" an automatic door - and the scene he saw was immediately off putting. A single man was standing in the aisle at the end of the check out counters, emptying an AK-47 in a wide arc across the store, spraying bullets into all the aisles and the check out stands. Pop cans in an aisle display exploded one by one, spraying brown liquid like arterial blood, and just to add to the surreal scene, cranberry juice and spaghetti sauce also spurted out of destroyed plastic jugs and shattered glass jars, making it look like an orgy of bloodletting. Angel could smell blood beneath the food smells, though, and he saw at least two bodies splayed in distant aisles.

"You're all demons!" The man shouted angrily, continuing to fire without obvious aim. "I know what you are! I won't let you -"

He had no idea what else he would have said, as Angel tackled the man, grabbing the gun with one hand and punching him in the face with the other. He smelled like a Human; a scared, angry Human pumped up on adrenaline and some kind of low grade methamphetamine.

That's why the man's following actions caught him by surprise.

Angel punched him hard enough in the face to send three of his teeth flying and to fracture his jaw, but the man's eyes burned with an unholy rage, suggesting something beyond simple hallucinations. He bucked underneath him, and ripped the hot gun out of his grip with a strength that was definitely inhuman. "You're one of them!" he screamed, bloody spittle flying, as he smashed the butt of the gun in the side of his head, hard enough to make something crack.

Angel hit the tiled floor, small sparks of pain bouncing across his line of sight as he tried to gather his wits together. This man wasn't operating under a demon induced illusion - he was fucking brainwashed. Brainwashed and too strong, and too fast for someone who wasn't a hybrid. But he didn't smell like anything but a Human.

The man was already on his feet, aiming the rifle down at him, but Angel grabbed the barrel and wrenched it, tossing the man over him and making him crash on his back to the floor. And still the man held on to the gun, depressing the trigger, causing bullets to spit out once more. The barrel was aimed away from him, so he was in no danger there, but the barrel heated up fast, to the point where Angel was sure he could smell his own flesh starting to smolder.

He was still sitting on the floor, which seemed not only awkward but totally undignified, so about the only thing he could do was kick the guy in the head as he tried to yank the gun out of his hand. He managed to pull the gun away, almost too easily, and in a millisecond he knew why.

The man had a machine pistol in his coat pocket, and when he let Angel pull the AK-47 away, he pulled it out and shot Angel almost point blank in the chest.

It laid him flat on the floor, gasping for a breath he didn't need. No, bullets couldn't kill him, but they hurt like hell, especially when you were so close that the gunpowder could bury itself into you, burn through your skin.

The man was up on his feet, far too fast, blood dribbling from his mouth, pistol aimed squarely down at his face. "You think you can stop me, demon! Your kind will -"

Once again he never got to finish his thought, as a large, decorative ceramic vase was slammed onto his head. It staggered him, but before he could fully recover, the pistol was ripped out of his hand and slammed butt first into his face, with enough force to break something else. Not satisfied with that, the pistol whipping continued with inhuman strength, until he collapsed bonelessly to the floor, a bloody, (temporarily) harmless heap. "Stupid motherfucker," Brendan spat, wiping his fingerprints off the gun with the bottom of his t-shirt before dropping it to the floor. As if to make doubly sure the man wouldn't get it , he kicked it into one of the check out aisles.

"Didn't I tell you to stay outside?" Angel carped, climbing painfully to his feet. God damn, his chest hurt.

"No."

"Well I meant to. Don't you ever fight a man with a gun, do you hear me? He could kill you with a bullet."

Brendan shrugged. "I know. I've been shot at before." He _had_? Then how could he be so casual about it? "What was that guy on?" Brendan continued. "I didn't think an ordinary Human could kick a vamp's ass."

"He didn't kick my ass," he snapped, perhaps a little too defensively. "He surprised me. And I don't know what the hell was done to him, but if it's a delusion, it's getting a hell of a lot stronger."

People started to emerge from their hiding places, including a female cashier who had crouched down inside her station to hide from the shooter. She looked at them warily, her thousand yard stare suggesting shock was settling in. "Is he dead?" she asked faintly.

"No, just out." And considering Brendan had probably fractured his skull, that was either luck, or more proof that this dimensional "bleed" was starting to effect people in many unexpected ways. There was no way for Giles to have predicted that; there was no way for anyone to have predicted that. There were no solid records of what happened the first time the Erebus sliver fell to earth. All they had were a few legends of the aftermath.

Angel picked up the man's AK-47, braced himself for the shock, and with a single rapid and forceful movement broke it over his knee. It snapped at the barrel, and he let the pieces fall to the floor. He couldn't use it, even if he did wake up before the police arrived.

Think of the devil. He could now here their sirens, distant but rapidly growing closer. Presumably someone hit a "panic" button as soon as he pulled out his gun. He grabbed Brendan's arm, and said, "We're gonna go meet them. If the guy moves, drop your cash register on him." God knew those things were usually heavy enough to do real damage.

"Hey, wait," someone said, a man this time, but neither he nor Brendan stopped as they left the store and quickly turned towards the back, where an alley would deposit them on a street the next block over. They would have to catch a cab, and quickly, before the police decided that the "good Samaritans" might actually be "persons of interest".

Giles was right. Things were getting worse - much, much worse.


	9. Part 9

12

It was obvious as soon as he hung up that Angel was going to do something stupid. So Giles wondered why he should be alone in doing that.

He had contacts of his own, but some of them were not easy to reach - nor very safe. But desperate times and all that. He'd already had the place prepared, a clear spot on his hotel room floor, although he had to make it in the bathroom for the embarrassing reason that it was the only place not covered with carpet.

The initial ritual was easy enough. Setting up the beeswax candles on the counter, turning off all the lights so only the low flames of the candles offered any illumination as he said the words and poured the circle of salt, adding a line of salt at the doorway. It was unlikely they'd make a run for it, but it was better safe than sorry, especially with this kind of demon.

He sat cross legged inside the salt circle, wincing slightly at the popping in his joints. He was too old for this shit, if he was to be completely honest with himself, but then again, who better to do this? He had experience that amount of power couldn't make up for, or at least he liked to tell himself that. He picked up the razor blade and made a thin incision across the palm of his hand, watching the blood well in a slender horizontal line. He pressed the base of his palm to speed the bleeding, then said the words of the summoning invocation, letting his blood drip outside the circle, as well as patter on some of the salt, soaking it through. He knew he muddled the pronunciation of some of the words, his conversational Sumerian wasn't always the best, but he knew those words weren't as important as some others. A breeze started to blow, making the candles flicker violently, and he could feel the energy building in the room. A sour but unidentifiable scent stung his nostrils, and he pulled his hand back inside the circle just as it appeared.

There was no noise, no lights; the candles simply stopped flickering and the breeze died violently, and he could see movement in the corner of his eye. Then it was in front of him, only the circle of salt holding it back.

"Oh, Giles, it's you," it grumbled, its voice an odd combination of fingernails on a blackboard and a maraca. "Why do you bother me?"

Hantu Kubor was as dangerous as he was unattractive. Currently he appeared on all sixes, the six thick appendages that were both arms and legs, ending in long, six digit claws that could work as feet and hands at the same time. He was technically quite short, standing only four feet high when he decided to stand upright on only two (or so) appendages, but his claws and his jaw - which he could distend enough to swallow a Human whole (and had several times, apparently) made him more than formidable. His head was mostly that swollen jaw full of teeth, as his eyes were on stalks that moved and swayed, looking behind him, in front of him, to the side, upwards and downwards all at once, all moving independently of one another. Considering he had thirty two foot long eye stalks on top of his head, he could see how Medusa might have gotten tagged with the snake hair, even though the myth properly belonged to Hantu Kubor, and they were neither snakes nor hair. Even worse, if you cut off some of his eye stalks for any reason, they grew back stronger than before. His body was remarkably flat, but all flawless muscle, his skin smooth and grey as graveyard ash. When he paced back and forth across the tiled floor, his claws clicked, and his long, thin black tongue flicked out and licked up his blood, coming to the edge of the salt. Even though he knew Hantu - vaguely - Giles knew that if he moved beyond the circle, the demon would pounce on him and tear him to shreds.

Actually, Hantu Kubor was a race of demons that dwelled in the underworld and fed off the remains and refuse of other worlds, and since they saw themselves as a singular entity, none of them had names. They were all Hantu Kubor, and what one knew and saw, all knew and saw. He had no idea if this one was the same one he encountered at the British Museum so long ago, but the difference was purely academic. "I need some answers," he told him, wondering how he had ever gotten so old. (His legs were starting to go numb.)

The Hantu Kubor paced back and forth restlessly, malevolence radiating from it like an aura. The majority of its eye stalks were swiveled in his direction. "Of course you do, old man. All you want is answers. It's tiresome."

"But while I have you here you have to answer me." It was true. The Hantu Kubor summoning spell pretty much obliged the demon to answer questions truthfully, otherwise it couldn't leave. And most of them didn't find this world pleasant. According to them, it was too bright, and smelled funny.

"Yes, yes, I know," he grumbled impatiently. "Get on with it."

"How does one destroy the Erebus sliver?"

That made it stop pacing, swiveling its remaining eyes towards him. "Foolish Human! Do you really think you can destroy anything of the gods?"

"Yes. Gods can be destroyed, and so can their things. And don't think I haven't noticed that you haven't answered the question." While they had to be truthful, that didn't mean they couldn't be tricky.

It grumbled and sat down on what could have been its haunches. (It didn't actually have a butt, which was only disturbing when you thought about it.) "You can do it, perhaps, but not without cost."

"Erebus has nothing to do with this plane anymore."

"No, not with the living," he grated, many of his eyes giving him hard looks. They were all as big as grapes and black as ravens, with an orange slit pupil like fire as seen from underneath a door. "But once you're dead, you'll face his judgment."

"A risk I will take." And he would. Once he was dead, he honestly didn't care what happened to him. Besides, he probably owed a lot of demons and gods something; they could fight over him like the wishbone of a Christmas turkey.

Its eyes bobbed and swayed, as if in an invisible breeze, and it made a noise that was one of grudging acceptance. "You are either stupid or brazen. I'm not sure which one is worse for you."

Giles just shrugged. He'd been called both - and worse - and he wasn't sure he cared. "Just tell me how to destroy the sliver."

The Hantu Kubor finally told him what he needed to know, and he wondered how he was going to do this. He was just going to have to figure out a way, and hope they all lived through it.

13

Logan had a hard time getting out of Gold's house. It wasn't that he couldn't walk out the front door, but Gold kept saying he could have someone go get his things, or get what he wanted, to the point that Logan knew the guy was trying to keep him here. Fed up, he angrily told him he was gonna go and get his own fucking smokes (he knew Gold didn't smoke; he could smell a cigarette months after one had been lit up), and he was going to come back, if that's what bothered him. Gold seemed off put by his aggressive stance (afraid of him, was he? Good, he should be), but quietly insisted he use "his" driver, as it was a long way into town. That's when he found out he was in Los Felis. Way too fancy for him; he'd stick out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood. No wonder he wanted him to take a driver, he was probably afraid someone would call the cops on him as a "suspicious looking person". So he took up the offer of the driver, figuring he could ditch the guy when he needed to.

It was weird outside, dark and Canadian cold, with the smell of snow sharp in the air. It didn't snow in Los Angeles, so he figured things were getting real bad.

The "driver" was a Human named Hector, and the car was a silver Lexus. Sitting in the back of a car with a costumed driver up front made him feel funny. He decided he wouldn't make a good rich person. (Which would surely be a shock to everyone who knew him.) He had him drive until they returned to Los Angeles, and a truly bad part of town. It made Hector nervous, but he had him park in the cracked parking lot of a bodega with bars over its dusty windows, and huge neon signs advertising malt liquor. But it also had a small sign advertising a pay phone inside.

Hector was happy to stay with the car as he went inside and hit the pay phone, calling the Way Station. He was hoping for Helga, but Lau picked up. Still, better than Lia. He left a message that he had made a kind of contact with Brezakaran, but he wasn't too sure about any of this. There were too many smoke and mirror tricks, too much stalling, too much play acting. Something was off about all of this, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Lau agreed that it sounded fishy, and it was the longest sentence he'd ever heard the taciturn Samoan use. Wow - if he could get Lau to speak, something _was _wrong.

He hung up, and went to pick a beer out of the freezer case - a normal beer, as malt liquor smelled like horse piss. A guy came in, shouting obscenities at the hapless Arab store owner and waiving a 9 millimeter around, demanding the money. But his tone started to take a familiar and sinister turn. "You think I don't know what you are?" The guy was saying. His words were coming together in a big slurry rush, like he'd been smoking crack most of the night. "I know what you are. You wear a mask but it doesn't fool me -"

Logan stuck the can of beer under his arm and stalked up the aisle quickly but quietly, directly behind the gunman, a big sweaty guy who reeked of body odors, and cheap chemicals used in crank production, as well as that piss smelling malt liquor. The guy's heart was pounding so hard Logan would swear he could hear it from a distance. The guy looked around nervously, but never did look behind him.

He was too busy leaning over the counter and waving the gun in the clerk's face to notice Logan until he was right behind him. But Logan didn't give him a chance to turn around. He simply grabbed the back of the guy's head and slammed his forehead down hard on the top of the old fashioned cash register. The cash drawer sprung open on impact, and the guy collapsed to the floor, bleeding from the cut on his forehead and unconscious at the very least - his left leg twitched spastically for a bit, making Logan wonder if he hit his head just a little too hard. He picked up the gun from where it had fallen on the dusty floor, and picked it up, putting it on the counter butt first, before putting his beer can down. "Got any cigars?" he asked the clerk, who stared at him in wide eyed shock.

After a minute, the clerk seemed to regain his composure, and sold him the can of beer and a cheap but still overpriced cigar. He thanked him, and Logan told him, "If the cops ask who did this, say I was a big black man wearing goggles, 'kay?" He nodded dumbly, and while Logan left, he wasn't sure he actually would. Still, if he did, Marcus would probably find it funny.

Logan noticed, as he got back into the Lexus, Hector was just hanging up his cell phone. He didn't say what that was about, but there was something so serious about his expression that it suggested it wasn't a good call. They beat the arriving cops by about two minutes, and as the cops drove past them, sirens blaring, Hector asked warily, "Did something happen back there?"

Logan cracked open his beer, and put up his feet on silver leather backseat. "Nothin' special."

Hector wasn't taking him back to Los Felis; that was obvious almost right away. Logan asked him, "Where we headed?"

Hector shifted nervously in the front seat, as if aware that if Logan didn't like his answer, he could simply pop his claws through the seat, and it would be goodnight nurse. "The boss wants to see you."

A weird statement, since he'd seen more of Gold than he ever wanted to see. But he must have meant Brezakaran - which was, once again, odd, since he'd theoretically already seen him in Gold's house. "Ah, so he's gonna really show himself now, huh?"

Hector shrugged, but he was starting to let off a fear smell. Logan didn't think he was really all that afraid of him, so he figured the big guy was bringing this on. "You met the boss?" Logan wondered.

Hector was quiet for a long time, clearly weighing his response. "Not … exactly, no. he doesn't usually meet … uh … Humans."

Did he hesitate because he was afraid to say the word demon, or was he suddenly unsure if he was Human or not? Did he think mutants weren't Human? No, he couldn't let himself get distracted by vague things that could mean anything. "But I'm special, huh?"

"It seems so." He glanced in the rear view mirror, as if trying to see what was so special about him. He almost made a face, but didn't.

Hector hit the nightmare that was the Los Angeles freeway, so Logan finished his beer, and wondered what the fuck was going on. What game was Brezakaran playing, and why? Did even have the stone, or was this just the weirdness of a mob boss who was paranoid since he'd been killed once before? Something just wasn't adding up here.

Once he finished his beer, he sat back and closed his eyes …

… only to find Mariko staring straight back at him.

He opened his eyes with a jolt, and had to swallow back a surge of anger. Now, see, that was just another thing that was wrong. Who was fucking with him, and why? Better yet, just why - why did people always love to fuck with him? Why did they love to rape his memories and his mind like it was required? Did he have a big "Victimize Me" sign on his forehead? How did he put an end to all of this?

It sounded like a rhetorical question. And that was the second worst part of it.

After what seemed like an eternity, Hector pulled into the parking lot of a huge condo of mirrored glass, a tower so phallic he expected it to be called the dick monument. Instead it was called Hyperion Tower, making Logan wonder if "hyperbole" had been taken. Hector parked in a reserved spot, and for a moment just sat there, unmoving, giving off a subtle scent of unease. Finally, he said, "Tell them you're expected. He's on the twentieth floor."

"Not going in with me?"

He shook his head. "I'm not supposed to."

Fair enough. He got out of the car and walked towards the front, wishing he'd worn a jacket. Who knew it'd ever get this cold in Southern California?

The lobby, all sterile marble and chrome, had a security officer behind a desk. He asked him who he was hear to see, and when he told him he really didn't know, he was just expected on the twentieth floor, the rent-a-cop sprung to his feet with sudden deference. He also had to unlock the elevator with a key card so he could access the twentieth floor. It seemed as silly as hell, but at least it was better than a security fence.

The elevator was silver, high tech and cold, and smelled faintly of lemongrass, but at least it didn't play muzak. When it opened on the twentieth floor, there was nothing there but a very small foyer and a metal door painted a flat gray. He sniffed the air warily, but didn't smell anything demonic. In fact, the one scent he was picking up …

A lock clicked, and the door swung open, revealing a tall, lean man with snow white hair, holding a tumbler full of scotch. In spite of his hair color, he looked to be somewhere in his thirties. "Logan, the man without fear," he said, with an unpleasant smirk. "Do come in." He didn't wait for further acknowledgment, just turned away and retreated into his penthouse, leaving the door ajar.

Okay, now he knew something was wrong. This was _not_ Brezakaran; they were being played.

The man was Human.

14

Shortly after they caught a cab to Los Felis, Giles called Brendan's cell phone, and asked them to meet him right away at an address near Brentwood. Brendan agreed and hung up before asking for clarification, and Angel scowled at him. "Couldn't you even ask why?"

"He said it was urgent," he replied, tapping the bulletproof divider and telling the cab driver their new destination. Of course, when he heard it, Angel realized the address was vaguely familiar.

"Huh," he said, wondering why Giles wanted them there.

"You know where that is?" Brendan wondered. "I haven't been in that area yet."

"It's a museum. A museum of the macabre."

"Really?" He seemed intrigued. "I didn't know L.A. had one of those."

"Yeah, it's a privately owned museum. A collection of arcane artifacts accumulated by a rich eccentric who briefly started a cult in the '20's. Once he died, his family turned his home into a museum since no one wanted to buy all his worthless crap. Most of it is just cheap knock offs of actual artifacts if not just made up tchotchkes."

"So why are we going there?"

Angel stared at him hard, but inevitably just shrugged. "Ask Giles."

It didn't take long to reach the area, and but by then hail was pelting down from the sky, pea sized balls of solid ice that pinged off the roof like stones. The Ferrando Occult Museum was a split level Victorian style home complete with needless gables and pillars, and plaster gargoyles on each corner of the peaked roof. It was set - quite fittingly - next to the sprawling Holy Oak Cemetery, which was full of mostly film stars from the '20's and '30's that no one remembered anymore. The area had the subtle air of the long forgotten, a place haunted not by ghosts, but by the lack of them, by faded glory. Even with the home set among a backdrop of towering oaks and a smooth swath of green grass and tombstones as upright and uniform as teeth, the place seemed as empty as a ghost town. You knew there was something wrong about a place if it could even give a vampire a chill.

The cab let them out at the wrought iron fence that surrounded the "museum", and the gate was already open. Giles and Naomi were standing beneath the shelter of the front porch, looking as if they were waiting for someone to answer the door. But as he and Brendan went up the concrete path to the front steps, he could clearly see there was a sign on the wide double doors that said, in big block letters, _'Closed for remodeling - open in October'._

"What's going on?" Angel asked as he and Brendan went up the steps. He noticed Giles had a white bandage on his hand. "What happened to you?"

Giles looked down at his hand, and said rather blandly, "I cut myself. Listen, I know this is going to sound crazy, but the Sword of Weyland is inside this building."

Angel stared at him in disbelief. "Uh, is it April first?"

Brendan looked between them, confused. "We're here about a sword? I know a guy on Venice Beach who sells nice ones …"

"It's a very special sword," Giles informed him. "It was forged from the blood of a demon god named Dolonn ."

"Forged from blood?" Brendan repeated, in a tone of voice that suggested he thought Giles was shitting him too. "Umm, how does somebody do that?"

"Dolonn's blood was liquid metal."

"What, like the second Terminator?"

Giles gave Brendan a look that he had given Xander about eight billion times. "I wouldn't know," he replied tartly.

"The blood imbues it with special power," Angel explained, trying to defuse any tension. "It can destroy anything; immovable objects, cursed spirits, gods. But it was lost, Giles - it was sucked into a time vortex during the Battle of Al-Almeina."

"Sucked into a what where?" Naomi wondered, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

"A long story," Angel assured her. "But it was lost forever."

Giles shook his head vigorously. "That's what we were all led to believe, but it was just misplaced in time, probably for good reason - the gods would hardly want something laying around that could destroy them, would they?"

Angel pointed at the sealed doors, where the peeling paint was an obvious sign of its age. "And it's _here_? How do you know this?"

"A trusted contact. It's here, but they don't know what they have. They think it's just a sword, and I'm sure most people who see it do as well. It's been hidden in plain sight."

Angel frowned, not sure he could buy this. Yes, it sounded both perverse and absurd enough to be true, and Giles wasn't the type to be sucked into a prank, but it still seemed so unlikely. The sword existed, and no one ever looked for it or found it?

Then again, who would look for it here?

Giles pulled a stone out of his pocket. Small and smooth, about half the size of a tangerine and milky white, Angel recognized it instantly. "And this should lead us right to it."

"A rock?" Brendan said skeptically.

"A chameleon stone," Giles clarified. "In proximity to the Sword of Weyland, it turns a rosy red. It also takes on other colors when magic has been used, and I can confirm this place has no mystical wards on it. Just standard security systems."

"And that's where I come in," Naomi said, approaching the doors. She pulled her gloves off, tucking them in the pocket of her coat, and put her bare hands flat against the door. She didn't appear to do anything, but after a moment, she stepped away, tiny arcs of electricity sparkling on her fingertips. "It's done. There's no electricity reaching the entire museum."

Giles nodded, and looked at him. "Would you do the honors?"

"What honors?" Brendan wondered.

Angel stepped up on the porch, mentally picked his spot, and then launched a flat footed kick at the door. The doors flew open, an inside deadbolt flying off and clanging down the hall as it bounced along the floor.

"Oh, those honors," Brendan said.

The four of them proceeded inside, and Giles pulled out a flashlight that he handed to Brendan to hold. The museum was - of course - pitch dark, and full of both dust and clutter. If they were remodeling, they hadn't started yet, or it was code for "goofing off". There were cluttered halls leading to even more cluttered rooms, and there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to any of this; it was haphazard and as slapped together as a basic thrift shop. "Why is it called the Sword of Weyland?" Naomi asked. She was sending a bigger arc of electricity between her fingers on her right hand to light her path, and because of it, she took up the rear, so she didn't accidentally bump someone and shock them. In the suffocating stillness of the museum, her voice seemed inappropriate somehow, even though she kept her tone to a whisper.

"Weyland was the name of the wizard who slew Dolonn and forged the sword," Giles explained, his voice even more hushed.

"Why didn't he come after it?" She asked.

"He was killed in the Battle of Al-Almeina, where the sword was lost."

"Wow, this is like the Tardis," Brendan explained, playing the beam of light across the replica of an African mask hanging on the wall. "Bigger on the inside than the outside."

"Not quite," Giles replied, actually aware of what he was talking about.

A strange feeling came over Angel; something like a shiver wormed its way down his spine, and the sound of the hail pounding the roof ceased so abruptly there was no way it could have been natural. "Shh," he hissed, listening hard, staring into the surrounding darkness. He was a vampire, he could see body heat in the darkness, smell blood, hear the beating of a living heart. "We're not alone anymore," he whispered.

As a natural response, they all crowded together, back to back, all of them too experienced at battle to leave themselves open, although Naomi was careful not to physically touch anyone. "Who is it?" Brendan whispered.

"Oh dear," Giles said, holding up the chameleon stone. It was now glowing a rather sickening chartreuse color, like phosphorescent pus beneath an infected wound.

"I'm guessing that's not good," Naomi remarked.

"I'm guessing that means we're fucked," Brendan agreed.

"Black magic," Giles confirmed. "Serious black magic has just been used on this place. On us."

Angel caught the smell then, the rank smell of spoiled meat, fresh, hot blood, and brimstone. It was sadly familiar. "It's hellhounds, " he told them, although he expected that Giles alone would understand the true nature of the threat. "My guess is an entire pack."

Giles's sigh was small, but deeply portentous. Yes, he knew, and he knew this wasn't good. Four of them against roughly a dozen hellhounds - most likely ravenous hellhounds. Live flesh, dead flesh, they didn't care; they would eat anything, rip it to pieces just to bathe in the blood. "They knew we were coming," Giles said, sounding strangely disappointed.

So they weren't the only ones who knew the true nature of the sword here, were they? Good bait, nice. How could they refuse? Brezakaran was much sharper than he ever gave him credit for.

And the silence of the museum was subsumed by the growling of a dozen hellish beast surrounding them in the dark.


	10. Part 10

Their eyes glowed in the dark, floating spots of red, and Naomi whispered quietly, "I can blast them two at a time. Do you think that will take care of them?"

"Your blasts? Yes," Angel agreed quietly, remembering how Shrike went flying when she really let go. The beasts were growling louder now, making them have to raise their voices out of necessity. "But two at a time probably won't cut it."

Giles was muttering something under his breath, a spell in Latin. He interrupted himself long enough to ask, "When I ask, can you give me a burst of light bright enough to blind them?"

Naomi figured out he was asking her. "I think so."

"Good." Very slowly, so as not to startle the beasts into a charge, he handed the chameleon stone to Brendan.

"Why're you givin' me this?" he wondered. But Angel had already figured out what he intended to do. He was giving the job to the fastest one of them, who was also perhaps the one least unable to defend himself in a straight fight with the hellhounds.

"We'll take care of the beasts. As soon as we temporarily blind them, you have to find the sword. And I'm sure I don't need to remind you speed is of the essence."

"Me?" Brendan replied, sounding suspicious. But there was no time or room for debate here.

The growling was so loud now that it sounded like there was a dragon in the room, and they had tightened their circle, so now they blocked both exits. The light was growing slowly brighter, though, as Naomi started to gather energy in her hands, the light twitching above her palm like a living thing, and the hellhounds looked and smelled unusually anxious. They didn't know what she was doing or what it meant; they weren't the smartest demons in the world.

Giles continued to mutter a spell, and Angel let his vampire side emerge, the now stronger scent of his demon making the hair on the necks of the beast rise up. Did they think they were the only things in this room that could rip a living being apart? He even had an advantage over them as he could do it with his hands as well as his teeth.

They weren't waiting anymore. They lowered their massive heads into attack position, and Giles said, "Now."

15

The penthouse was rather sparse in decoration, with exposed concrete in areas where thick blue pile carpet didn't cover the floor. The counters were poured concrete topped with a stone looking laminate, which struck Logan as a really odd choice of decor. There was a window wall overlooking this part of the city, the cars flying by on the streets below and beyond looking a bit like toys.

A large brown leather sectional sofa sat in the center of the room, opposite a plasma t.v., and as the man walked to the glass and chrome bar, he said, "Have a seat. What's your poison?"

Could be literal. But did it matter? "Beer."

The man turned and glanced at him over his shoulder, appearing vaguely amused. "Beer? When you can have aged scotch or whiskey?"

Logan flung himself on the sofa - which was, he had to admit, really comfortable - and said, "It all tastes like shit, man. I'm just used to beer."

This made him chuckle. "Well, I don't have beer, I'm afraid. Never acquired a taste for it."

Logan just shrugged. "Fine, whatever."

The man poured him a scotch, and Logan noticed a slight bulge in the back of his shirt. He thought for a moment it was a gun, but he didn't smell gun oil, and there was something odd about the shape of it. A knife? No, it wouldn't push out like that ...

He didn't give him the drink, he simply set it on the low glass coffee table in front of the couch. He didn't want to get too close? Fine; at least it painted him as reasonably smart. The man perched on the edge of a brown leather chair as he contemplated him. "I bet you're wondering what this is all about."

"I'm wonderin' who the fuck you are," he replied, grabbing his glass of scotch.

The man chuckled again, but it was a nervous, uncomfortable titter. "I'm calling myself Brezakaran now."

"Callin' yourself? So not your name." Of course he already knew this, but he had to play along.

"No. I'm afraid respect sometimes has to be manufactured. Which I'm sure you understand." What the hell did that mean? "You and I have a lot in common, you know."

Logan looked around the large, austere penthouse, the man's thousand dollar shoes and silk dress shirt, and couldn't help but snicker. "Uh, actually, no we don't."

"We do. You're a mutant, and so am I."

That stopped him short, but he honestly didn't know why. The world was just getting lousy with mutants. "Are you now? What can you do?"

The man shook his head, glanced down at his own drink. "Nothing. I'm afraid my mutations are purely physical, and useless." He put his drink down, and that's when Logan really saw it for the first time, even before he raised his hand to show him. There was a fine membrane of mostly translucent skin between all of his fingers, webbing them together from the base to the knuckle near the tip of each finger. When he spread his hand, the effect was dramatic. "Webbed fingers and toes. The end result is I can swim really fast, but that's all; I don't even have gills. I used to have a tail too."

"Used to?"

"Yes. My parents had it amputated when I was an infant. See, I was born with it, and the doctors assumed it was a birth defect." He scratched at his lower back. "I still have the stump. Sometimes I can feel a phantom tail, but mostly it just itches."

So that was the lump in the back of his shirt. Creepy. "And what does that have to do with any of this shit? What the hell's going on?" Even though he hadn't had a drink yet, Logan got the most curious feeling. It was a brief moment of light headedness, but it still seemed to linger. What was that?

The man studied him with eyes as beige as hotel wallpaper as he sipped his scotch. "I intended to use demons alone as cannon fodder. Having a fellow mutant along was ... unexpected. Especially a man like you."

"Like me? Meaning what?"

He sat back, sloshing his drink around in his crystal glass. It was almost hypnotic the way it moved, swirling endlessly around the base. "After the original Brezakaran was killed, there was a power vacuum in the demon mob. It didn't help that some big power players in the area had to briefly pack up shop afterwards. Can you believe a do gooder vampire was responsible?" He shook his head dismissively. "What is the world coming to? Anyways, the vacuum was quickly filled by a group determined to bring in the biggest Human mobs as mules. Use them and slowly wipe them off the map, giving the demon mob the entire run of the show. But that fell apart. Do you know why?"

Holy shit, he knew he'd worked for the Triad. What was he supposed to do now? Lying was out of the question, though - he knew. Best to 'fess up, but in a way that could still fit in with his cover. "Yer lookin' at him."

The man raised his eyebrow skeptically, as if he hadn't been expecting a straight answer. "The question is why you were working against the demon mob."

"I wasn't. I was working against the Yakuza."

"Yes, you were in the company of the Triad, weren't you? What I don't understand is why."

He didn't owe this guy an explanation, and yet he felt strangely compelled to give him one. His sense of dizziness increased as he tried to resist it, and he realized that there was something going on, perhaps a spell of some sort, that made him want to tell the truth. What a sneaky bastard. "The Yakuza killed my wife, left me for dead. You don't forgive that kind of shit."

Something like humor sparkled in his eyes, and Logan quietly vowed that before this was all over, he was going to rip his smug fucking face off. "You were in the Yakuza? You don't look Japanese."

"My wife was; you can't pick your family. And the Yakuza don't appreciate it when you do something they don't like. I want to kill every motherfucking one of those bastards."

"Which still doesn't explain why you'd join the Triad."

"I didn't join them," he snapped, and found himself fighting the impulse to tell the complete truth. At least he was skilled at fighting impulses that weren't truly his own. Maybe that was the one favor the Organization had ever done for him. "They hired me. They knew I hated the Yakuza, and decided to see if I would even things up. I wasn't gonna do it for free."

"Oh?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "But I thought you hated them."

"I hate all fucking mobsters. Even if I was doing this for my own fun, I was gonna make those other bitches pay through the nose."

"But what is this if not working for a mobster?"

It was an effort of will to suppress the complete truth, and it felt like trying to hold back a tidal wave with his bare hands, but so far he was managing. Maybe Xavier was right; maybe his willpower alone was a frightening thing, a force in itself, a hidden weapon. He just hoped he wasn't visibly sweating from the effort of concealing the real story. "Fuck that. It was a pit fight. Ain't no one a better pit fighter than me. I didn't want the fucking "prize" - I wanted the fucking title."

He sat back, scrutinizing him, never taking his eyes off him as he measured his veracity. If he threw a spell to make sure he always spoke the truth, this would all be for show, another act for his benefit. God, he hated this bullshit. Why was there always so much bullshit? "You look familiar somehow, but I just can't place it."

Had he seen him on the internet? Shit - if he'd seen that security video feed from Liberty Island, placing him with the "X-Men", this was over. "I'm the champion cage fighter in Canada. Ever been North?"

He shook his head. "Not farther north than Portland, no. So, let me get this straight. You're a champion cage fighter who just happens to be a freelance mercenary?"

Logan shrugged. "It pays the bills."

"Who's paying you now?"

"No one." Not even a lie. "Except you, I guess. There is money in this, ain't there?" He actually wanted to ask what the asshole meant by "cannon fodder", but for some reason he couldn't quite spit out the words. The spell?

The man let out a large sigh, one that spoke of a lot of weariness, and he put his glass down on the coffee table before standing up. "What you're working for is much better than money." He turned his back on him and walked towards the window. If he was going to attack him, now would be the ideal time, except Logan couldn't seem to get up off the sofa. So what did he know so far? The guy was a mutant, but claimed not to have any mental powers at all, which could be a lie. But, considering everything that had gone on, including the fact that everybody was terrified of him, he was probably some kind of spell slinger - a sorcerer, a wizard, whatever the fuck. (He honestly didn't know how those distinctions were made, and he didn't care.) Did he make himself look like Brezakaran, however he actually appeared to be? That might explain why everyone was fooled.

"I need warriors for my cause," the guy continued, looking out at the Los Angeles skyline. "As a fellow mutant, you're almost too good to waste. Because, you see, as soon as I'm finished, we won't be the minority anymore."

"Huh?" Oh god, was this Magneto shit? If this was Magneto shit, he was going to shove him out the window.

"The tyranny of homo inferiors is coming to an end, Logan. After tonight, there will only be homo superiors on this planet; the inferiors will simply cease to exist." He looked over his shoulder at him, and gave him a deeply unpleasant smile, one sharp enough to cut glass. "And how well do you think the demons will fair against us? The Earth will be ours alone." He turned away once more, and Logan realized he was already viewing the city as entirely his, a benevolent dictator gazing out at his lands. As far as he was concerned, it was all over but the dying. "You're a lucky man. Tonight, you'll be witnessing history, and helping me usher in a golden age."

Holy shit. He was going to shove this nutjob out a fucking window … as soon as he could get up off the couch.

Damn it. Where was Bob when you needed him?

16

As soon as Giles said "Now," Angel closed his eyes and hoped Brendan did the same.

There was a noise like water thrown on a hot skillet, a sizzling crackle, and a flash of light so bright that Angel cringed from it as it seemed to flash fry his corneas straight through his eyelids. He could see all the fine lines of capillaries in the thin skin, the things that would be carrying blood if only he was a living being once again.

The beasts whimpered as if struck, and he opened his eyes as soon as the light died, blinking away after images. Brendan must have closed his eyes, because Angel saw him sneak through a gap in the circle of beasts and make a run for it. Two wheeled to follow, based on scent and hearing alone if nothing else, and Naomi blasted one with a bolt of electricity so powerful that Angel could smell the burning fur on impact.

They may not have been the smartest demons in existence, but they knew they were in trouble, and reacted accordingly - they attacked as one, swarming them like rabid dogs. One lunged for his throat, and Angel grabbed it by its neck as its jaws snapped at his face, its fetid breath reeking of rotten meat. He squeezed until he snapped its neck, the little bones cracking like twigs, and threw the corpse of the hound into one of its pack mates, sending it sprawling. But two more hounds lunged at him, from the left and the right, as Naomi fried another, and he heard one whimper behind him as Giles stabbed one of the hounds. (Giles had a knife? Did he pick that up from one of the piles of crap, or did he actually carry one around nowadays? All those averted apocalypses had to make you a much tougher customer.)

Angel held out his left arm and let the hound close its jaws around it, teeth sinking to the bone (there were no words for the pain, but it pissed off the vampire in him, which he saw as a good thing in this circumstance), and he grabbed the one coming in from the right by the muzzle, twisting it hard; it shattered like glass under his fingers. It let out a deep whine as he dropped it and spun, slamming the body of the other hound into the wall. It didn't let go, so when another beast lunged at him, he bludgeoned it with his pack mate. It finally let go, but ripped out a good chunk of his skin.

He kicked another one clear across the room, and when a wounded one feinted an attack, he grabbed it and snapped its neck cleanly, throwing it at another beast. Maybe there were more than a dozen, but it didn't matter, as the three of them were actually doing a pretty good job putting them away.

One of the beasts' had gotten the better of Giles, who was now pinned to the floor and struggling to keep it from sinking its jaws into his throat. Angel grabbed its head and yanked it back hard, ripping it off Giles' and snapping its spine at the same time. A bolt of electricity sizzled past his head, frying a beast in mid leap, but something hit him hard in the back, a large hound bringing him down.

He tried to catch himself as he hit the floor, and he felt its teeth sink into the back of his neck.

* * *

Why did they give him this job? Didn't they know he was basically a fuck up?

Brendan ran through the dark, messy house, hearing the rapid thuds of heavy steps behind him, one of those hyena looking things. What had Angel called them? Hellhounds. Boy, _that _was a promising name. And there was no way he was going to outrun it, and there were no doors to slam in its face. Damn it!

He couldn't see in the dark - his demonic abilities were just a tad more useful than his mutant abilities, but not by much - but he could see certain variations in the darkness, places where the shadows weren't so heavy, and he thought he could make out the shape of something that he could use as a weapon. He grabbed it and spun as the demonic dog closed the meager distance between them. He swung the object at the red eyed dog, hoping this thing was solid enough to do something, as now that he held it in his hands, it felt needlessly flimsy. It was long and thin, surprisingly light, and he had time to wonder if he'd grabbed a broom when he heard a wet noise as he hit the dog.

Only after the thing slumped to the floor did Brendan realize his stupid luck had finally paid off - he'd grabbed a spear. It was a flimsy spear, but clearly the point was sharp enough. He held on to it, and took it with him as he ventured farther into the house.

Now how was he supposed to find this thing? He had the rock, but it still glowed that sickly yellow-green, and he had no idea how close he'd have to get to the sword to find it. He could hear yelps as the dogs were fried, beaten, and otherwise given a hell of a fight by Angel, Naomi, and Giles. What if they killed one of them? (Okay, a hellhound probably couldn't kill a vampire, 'cause they weren't wood, but they could still hurt him.) Now that he had a spear, he felt he should go back and skewer some of them.

But Giles told him to find the sword. Damn it. He barely knew the guy, but he had a feeling he should do what he said - he might be just a Human, but he had a kind of gravitas that suggested you do what he said, or else. Had he ever been a teacher? He had that kind of vibe. Or maybe that just came along with being British; the British had a tendency to make everything sound good and reasonable, even when they were as clueless as everyone else. It had to be the accent.

He held the chameleon stone out like a scanner, hoping for some kind of color variation as he ran it over piles of various junk, keeping one eye out for a better weapon. (Oh, if only this place had a gun, or maybe a grenade or two.) The first room was a bust, for both weapons and that sword, and it was getting harder to ignore the noises of a brutal fight near the front of the house. He should be there; he shouldn't be on a scavenger hunt while people might be dying in another room.

He was half way through the second room when he heard growling behind him. He turned, bringing the spear to the ready, but the thing had already jumped. Luckily, hellhounds weren't the brightest bulbs in the socket, as the thing leapt straight onto the spear, but momentum still carried it forward, farther down the shaft, and the sudden weight made Brendan stumble and fall on his ass. As he hit the floor, the weight of the beast broke the spear; he heard the flimsy thing crack, and it fell away with the demon dog, thudding on the floor like a dropped bowling ball.

So here he was, sitting on the floor and holding a broken stick, as another dog with glowing red eyes stood in the archway of the room, growling at him. Fuck! Did wood kill them like vampires? If they did, he was still in the game. Otherwise, he was totally fucked.

He tried to shove himself back quietly, looking around for something more substantial than a stick, when he noticed a light glowing in the corner. Wait a minute - that was the chameleon stone. He dropped it when the first dog jumped on his spear and impaled itself. The stone was still that sickly yellowish color … except the far side of it was now glowing a pale red. Oh, praise his stupid, random ass luck.

He shifted towards the stone, trying not too move too fast and spook the thing. But it crept forward slowly, raising its muzzle, the black pad of its nose quivering as it scented the blood of its partner. Christ, these things weren't smart enough to hold a grudge, were they?

He knew he wasn't going to make it as the thing charged at him, so he scrambled back and hoped to grab the sword, but he couldn't see it. His hand closed on the stone and he brought it up as the thing attacked, smashing it in the side of the head hard enough to send it staggering back. God, it had the worst dog breath he'd ever smelled. What had it been eating, garbage?

He started feeling around blindly for something sword like, and felt like he'd put his hand in a junk pile. He felt things that seemed like plastic, like stone, like wood, but nothing metal. Was the sword not metal? No, no, it was - it was made from demon liquid metal terminator blood. He scattered stuff noisily as the devil dog lunged at him, and he brought up the broken stick, plunging it into its side.

It yelped and reel once more, but Brendan already knew that the wound wasn't anywhere near fatal. He'd probably just pissed it off even more.

He dug desperately through the pile of random crap, scattering it all across the floor, and his hand brushed something stiff and leathery that made him pause as an afterthought. Was that a sheath? That could have been a sheath.

He grabbed it, and was relieved by its weight, length, and heft. Yes, it was a sword all right. Now he just hoped it was the right one.

He sat with his back against the wall as he pulled the heavy sword out of its dusty leather sheath (the dust made him sneeze), and he had time to notice that the sword had a funny smell - more like dirt and salt than metal - as the dog jumped at him once again. It hit the sword, almost shoving it into his face, and then the most extraordinary thing happened. The dog staggered back, went stiff, and hit the floor like a fifty pound bag of shit.

Brendan stared at its dark form, waiting for it to move again (could they strategize like that?), when he noticed how his own demon side was reacting to the proximity to the sword. It felt like he had a billion worms under his skin, burning holes through his muscles, swimming in his blood, gnawing through membranes in search of an exit …

He held the sword away from him, but didn't drop it. This thing was a nightmare, wasn't it? He no longer doubted that this thing had killed the dog just by touching it.

He got to his feet and left the sheath and the stone behind out of necessity, as this sword was so heavy he could only carry it with two hands (and his Brachen side was out! A normal Human probably couldn't even lift this thing, begging the question of how it ended up here), and ran back towards the battle.

A hellhound met him in the hall, but one of the chop of the sword put it down; he didn't even need to hit them with blade, which made things infinitely easier. He charged into the room, hitting every dog he saw, and one was currently on Angel's back, so he made a beeline for him. He slammed the flat of the blade on the thing's back, and it went instantly stiff. Boy, was Angel going to owe him, huh?

He'd missed one, though, and that demon dog launched itself at his back, sinking its teeth into his right shoulder. He screamed in pain and reflexively dropped the sword, instantly losing almost all feeling in his arm. But the thing's teeth burned like hot nails under his skin, its saliva like acid, and he fell against the wall as the thing dug its claws into his back, trying to climb him like a fucking tree, and bring him down with its weight.

Angel jumped up to his feet and grabbed the dog, slipping its hand in its mouth and yanking up. Brendan couldn't help but wince as he heard its upper jaw break, and Angel ripped it off of him, twisting its neck for good measure, snapping it with a sound like a gunshot.

Giles grabbed the sword as Angel threw the body of the beast down in a corner - he had a pretty good sized pile in that corner. Brendan leaned against the wall, grabbing his bleeding shoulder, as Giles said, "Good job. Are you all right?"

Brendan nodded, the pain making him gasp for breath. "Uh, yeah, I think so. They're not poisonous, are they?"

"No."

Giles was holding the sword up with both hands (proving a regular Human could hold it), in a stance that suggested he actually _knew_ how to swordfight, and he looked around protectively, in spite of the blood dripping down into his eyes. Of them all, only Naomi wasn't bleeding, but then again, little snakes of energy were flicking in and out of existence around her arms and legs. If they got close enough to bite her, they were probably repelled by her electrical field.

Angel rubbed the back of his neck, smearing blood on his hand. Blood was also dripping down his arm, but he didn't seem to notice. "I think we've gotten them all."

Giles nodded, but he didn't seem to concerned. Maybe because he was holding the big death sword. "Good. Now we can get down to business."

"And what's that exactly again?" Naomi asked. She sounded a bit pissed off, but maybe she was just a little freaked by the big demon dog attack. "Remind me."

Brendan rubbed his shoulder, and feeling was coming back to his arm, although it was that awful pin prickling sensation you got when your arm "went to sleep". It was trembling involuntarily, and when he touched the wound, it was like rubbing lemon juice in it. Fuck, it hurt. He was probably going to need stitches, and a couple of vicodin. Hellhounds couldn't have rabies, could they?

Giles wiped the blood from his brow with his forearm, letting the point of the sword rest on the bloody floor. Even though they hadn't been dead long, the hellhounds were starting to smell really bad, like boiled cabbage starting to rot. "We find out if Logan has contacted us."

"And if he hasn't?" Brendan wondered, feeling ashamed at the painful wince in his voice. The dog couldn't have done nerve damage, could it?

Angel held out his hand - the one without the blood on it - and with just a hint of reluctance, Giles handed him the sword. Angel held it up with one hand, in a way that suggested he too was no stranger at handling a sword. The metal gleamed like liquid in the light provided by Naomi, like freshly spilled blood, and every now and again, Brendan thought he saw something shift deep inside the blade. There was no way it could actually somehow still be slightly liquid, could it? No, it must have been an optical illusion. "Then we find him."

"He might not be with the silver," Giles pointed out. "And if Brezakaran is hiding out in a pocket dimension …"

"We'll find him," Angel said, with so much confidence it was hard not to believe him. "I think it's about time the demons in this town learned that I'm back." He held the sword close to his face, as if relishing the awful feeling the sword engendered up close, and a slow, unsettling smile grew across his face, the blade reflecting in his eyes like fire. "And I'm still a complete bastard."


	11. Part 11

17

They returned to the Way Station, to get patched up and see if Logan had gotten in touch with them yet. As it turned out, he had called Lau, and Lau could give hospital quality stitches, as he was once a nurse. (Brendan didn't laugh, but trying to imagine this huge, hulking man in a nurse's uniform was just too funny.)

But he numbed him down with alcohol and a topical solution that smelled like hummus, and sewed up his bite wound. He said it looked bad, but he didn't think there'd be any nerve damage. "You're a Brachen anyways," he said conversationally. "Your kind's as tough as a chew toy." He supposed that was a compliment.

Once he got back out to the bar, everyone was discussing the content of Logan's curious message. The place was mostly empty - apparently the weirdness had spurred most demons on to various sprees - and Helga was perched on a stool behind the bar. Angel wore the sword in a sheath over his back, as the sheath was necessary to carry it safely. Who knew demon blood could be so toxic?

"He didn't really tell us anything substantive," Giles argued. He looked like he was trying very hard not to make too much contact with the bar. He had proclaimed it "grotty", and was apparently disappointed that the Way Station looked so much like an average Human place.

Angel shook his head, his jaw set in a stubborn manner. "He told us a lot. We're not dealing with Brezakaran, which makes sense."

"He didn't say that. He said he had a feeling we weren't. Are you willing to bet your life on a hunch?"

"One of his? Yes," Angel replied defiantly. "Logan's often had nothing to go one but his hunches, and I've never known them to be wrong. You can't think of him as a normal Human, Giles, because he's not."

Giles looked dubious, but glanced down at the small leather bound book resting on the bar before him. It was something called the "Imperium Codex", and supposedly had something on the Erebus sliver, but Brendan didn't even recognize the language it was written in. Giles winced slightly as the jukebox kicked into the Dead Kennedys' "California Uber Alles".

There was a noise in the back, and he figured it was Lau coming out, but Helga snapped, "Where the hell have you been? I expected you a half hour ago."

"Things-"

"- are -"

"- weird out -"

"- there," the Sisters' claimed, slinking around to the other end of the bar.

Angel groaned loudly, resting his head in his hands. "Why did you call them?" he asked.

"Hello -"

"- Daddy," they said brightly, with stereo grins. Angel's shoulders seemed to slump inside his jacket, like the words were a physical blow.

Giles studied them for a long moment. Maybe it was their wardrobe, which was notable for how loud it was. They wore dusters of copper leather (or maybe vinyl), black Doc Martens, green suede pants, and blood red t-shirts. They'd gotten their hair cut since he'd last seen them; it was now shoulder length, probably because it was easier to keep out of their faces. Actually, he wished they still had it hiding their faces, because there faces were so creepily blank.

After a moment, Giles asked, "Are you … the Sisters?"

"Yes," they replied happily, baring all their teeth in smiles more frightening than anything this side of a shark.

"You know about them?" Brendan asked him. Yes, it seemed like an idiotic question, but he wanted to know how _much_ he knew. Some of the Sisters might be a surprise to him.

Giles paused, glancing between all of them as he spoke. "I read about the Weird Sisters in the diary of a Watcher named Ivan Davidovitch. He said that separately, they were innocent girls with the faces of angels, and together, a thing of unstoppable evil, a twin beast that operated as a single entity. He disappeared shortly after that entry, and was never found." He fixed his gaze on the odd eyed twins. "Did you kill him?"

They tilted their heads the exact same way, and their smiles never wavered. Creepy. "We -"

"-don't -"

"-know, there's -"

"- so many -"

"- men named Ivan -"

" - in Russia. And -"

"- we object to being -"

"- called a beast, and -"

"- innocent."

Giles seemed unimpressed by their performance, and turned a harsh glare on Angel. "I didn't know there was a connection to Angelus until I was forced to research him. In retrospect, it made sense."

"They are not my fault," he claimed desperately, pointing in their direction.

"You certainly knew how to pick them, didn't you?" Giles replied acidly.

"Wow guys, get a room," Helga said sarcastically. "Ain't this all beside the point?"

"Yes, I agree," Giles said, a little too quickly. "Why aren't we staking them?"

"You -"

"- can -"

"- try," the Sisters replied with an eerie cheerfulness.

"They're here because you need back up," Helga said, in a tone of voice that made Giles sit back a bit. Her eyes had narrowed, and her tail flicked in a way that suggested she was about to hit someone. "When you need quick muscle, they're the go team. And secondly, they're not totally evil anymore."

Giles scoffed at that. "Oh really? Why on Earth wouldn't they be?"

"We-"

"-love-"

"-Bob," the girls crowed, in a way that could have been sarcastic if Brendan didn't know they were being honest.

Giles frowned, dubious and yet not exactly disbelieving. "This is that Maximum Bob again, yes?"

Helga nodded. "He's very lovable, in spite of being a jackass."

"He's -"

"-dreamy," the Sisters added.

"Would you please just stop?" Angel snapped, shooting them a hard look. "God."

This actually seemed to amuse the Sisters. Angel's distress was apparently high hilarity to them. "He's -"

"- all -"

"- the god-"

"- we need."

"That's enough," Angel demanded. "I mean it."

The Sisters smiled even wider, looking like psychotic twin Cheshire cats. "Jealous?" They replied in unison.

Before Angel could toss his glass of pig's blood, Helga gave him a look that he knew meant _'Get in here, kid'_. He almost didn't want to - it was kind of funny to see the group spiraling out of control due to the unsettling presence of the Weirds, but he knew it wouldn't be good. The point was they were a team, right? And they had a major problem. "Umm, hate to interrupt, but how are we gonna find Logan?"

That seemed to gain their attention. Giles had thrown a spell when they first arrived, the one he used to locate Logan in Los Felis, but it hadn't worked. This suggested that he was either being shielded by magic, or back in that pocket universe. whatever that meant. Giles and Angel shared a glance that wasn't hostile, which was nice, but it wasn't very optimistic either. "I could try scrying once more," Giles offered half-heartedly.

Angel sighed. "I can think of a few people I can beat answers out of."

"That's gonna take time," Helga pointed out. "Do we know how much time we have?"

That was a question that made Giles scowl in an unpleasant way. "No, we don't. I can't imagine it's very long at this rate."

"The problem is, you're thinking of a mystical solution to the problem, which this guy is obviously trying to block," Helga told them. "So maybe you need to go non-mystical on his ass. Find him in a different way."

Now there was a thought. But Angel asked the obvious question. "And how do we do that?"

"Creepy bald guy."

That earned her many strange looks, but after a moment - and after briefly wondering if she meant that guy on Sunset who seemed to talk to his shoes - Brendan suddenly realized who she meant.

Oh well, at least he might finally be of some use.

* * *

Angel found himself stuck trying to explain the concept of Cerebro to Giles while Brendan made the call. It was far harder than he ever imagined, mainly because he really hadn't paid that much attention. He took the inexplicable so totally for granted that he hadn't asked about it.

Wesley knew this. Wesley had actually been inside it, which he told him about later on. He was apparently amazed by it, in awe of the design. Just thinking about it made his gut clench in a painful way.

He remembered how chuffed Wes was after he got the invitation to join the X-Men, the first non-mutant to be asked. He was pretty much insufferable for a week. But Wes had so few solid triumphs in his life, that was okay. He deserved it.

And just think - if he pushed him to take it, made him take it, fired him, something, he might be alive today. He probably would have been a good teacher.

Angel shoved the thoughts away, because he couldn't think about that right now. He could mope and brood over dead friends later - right now, he had to make sure Logan didn't join that list.

Brendan had to chat with Scott a bit first, reminding Angel that Logan had said that Scott saw Brendan as a prized student, someone with leadership potential. Certainly Brendan had taken the initiative on the whole vampire hunting thing. If he could just keep his rash and stupid decisions under control, he probably would be a very good fighter someday. He just needed to stay alive until then. He wondered if he could get Logan to talk the kid into going back to the school.

But how unlikely was that? Logan made it clear that he thought Brendan made the wrong decision, but also that it was Brendan's decision to make. At the end of the day, Logan was all about freedom of choice, and considering what had happened to him, that was easy to understand. Logan had his own choice taken away from him a long time ago.

Brendan finally got to Xavier, and told him the bare boned version of the story - they were looking for a bad guy, and Logan had gotten close to him, but now they couldn't find him. Could Xavier? He seemed to agree to help, and they waited while he used Cerebro.

"So it amplifies his natural telepathy?" Giles asked Brendan, while he waited on hold.

Brendan nodded. "From what I understand, yeah. And the Professor's uber-powerful as it is, so that's how he can reach around the entire globe."

"Sounds fascinating." Which would normally just be a polite thing to say, but he actually meant it. He wondered what shade of queasy Giles would turn if he told him he and Wes had that in common.

Xavier came back, and Brendan talked to him for a moment before hanging up. Normally he would have had him write down any location, but this was Brendan, the kid who could remember everything - writing things down was for people with normal brains.

"A couple of things," Brendan told them, as soon as he hung up. "Logan's in Santa Monica, and while the Prof couldn't say if he was in trouble or not - he doesn't like to go too deep into Logan's mind for obvious reasons - he did say he was angry. I mean, bloody fucking scare the crap out of Xavier angry. He doesn't think that's a good sign."

"Isn't he always angry?" Giles replied, with some sarcasm.

"He's -"

"- always -"

"- hurt; he's -"

"- periodically angry," the Sisters replied.

Wow, was that insight? The Sisters were capable of such things from time to time. He guessed they really did like Logan too. Lucky him.

"Also, the Professor said he's not alone," Brendan continued.

Angel didn't understand that, and from the look Giles gave him, he didn't either. "Of course he isn't alone. He's with our bad guy."

Brendan shook his head tersely. "No, I mean, he's with another mutant."

The fact that the jukebox decided to cut out then was portentously ironic. Angel wondered if Bob had the world's only empathic jukebox, then got back to the topic at hand. "Wait a minute - the guy we thought was Brezakaran is really a mutant?"

Brendan shrugged. "Xavier said there was something strange about him, a kind of fog over his mind - magic? - but he pushed as hard as he could and got some things. His name in Ross Charlton, and his mutation seems purely physical and low level. Webbed fingers and toes seems to be the extent of it, as far as he can tell. Nothing that would be a hindrance to Logan if something else wasn't interfering."

"Charlton?" Helga repeated suspiciously. "As in Charlton Towers?"

It took Angel a moment, but he recognized the name. "Those condos on the west side?"

She nodded, her tail continuing to twitch rhythmically behind her. "One and the same. He's a fucking rich bitch, heir to his daddy's fortune. Who knew he was into black magic?"

"Me," Angel admitted sourly. "Well, not Ross; him I didn't know about. But Howard Charlton, his father, was one of Wolfram and Hart's big clients."

Helga sighed heavily, tapping her fingers on the bar impatiently before making herself stop. "Think they're back too?"

A good question, and if he was going to be completely honest, he would have told her they had probably never left at all, just relocated. But he didn't feel like being completely honest right now. "Maybe. This whole thing with the Erebus sliver sounds like something they would do."

Giles frowned in thought, the wheels in his head clearly turning as he puzzled all of this out. "So the man claiming to be Brezakaran - to the best of our knowledge - is really a black magic wielding mutant who may be aligned with Wolfram and Hart?"

"That seems to be the size of it," Brendan admitted, and he sounded rather depressed about it.

"No -"

"- Wolfram -"

"- and Hart -"

"- aren't this -"

"- sloppy. Ross is -"

" - freelancing," the Sisters averred.

That was a good point. There was a certain randomness to all these events that seemed to point towards hasty planning at the very least, or absolutely none at worst. What was the scenario here? Charlton got a hold of the sliver, and was now trying to exploit it, but to what end? All he'd been able to do was kill a lot of people, and drop in alternate universe demons at random. And where did the demon bodyguards come into all of this?

He came out of his thoughts to find Giles staring at him expectantly. "Is that plausible?"

He didn't trust the Sisters? No, why would he, especially if he only knew of them through Watcher's diaries or stories of Angelus. He hadn't even met Bob yet; he didn't know how wildly persuasive he was, how he could alter reality with a word, that he was more than just an old Belial demon. Angel considered it - it was the Sisters after all, and he couldn't trust them completely - and nodded. "Wolfram and Hart are much more focused than this. They have their shit together, if you'll excuse the colloquialism."

"But you destroyed 'em, man," Brendan interjected. "Maybe they're scrambling."

He wished he hadn't brought that up. He scrubbed a hand nervously through his hair, wondering how he was going to admit he'd really done no such thing, when Helga (of all people) came to his rescue. "I think I misspoke. They were - are - pan dimensional evil overlords. Those kinds never go away, they just relocate."

Naomi, who had been quietly sipping a soft drink at the opposite end of the bar, finally said, "I have no idea who they are. Does it matter?"

"No," Angel assured her. "If they were in on this, we'd be totally screwed."

But in a way, they remained screwed. They were still missing pieces to the puzzle, even though most had fallen into place. There were still huge gaps, though, and in a situation like this, the unknown could kill you. The unknown could bite your head off and leave you twitching at the bottom of a sewer.

Several moments went by, with no sounds but the sipping of drinks and the flipping of pages, when finally it was broken by Giles saying a sudden, quiet, "Ah."

Coming from Giles, that was the equivalent of a shout. It was like the first thing that Watchers learned was to underplay everything, to react in opposition to the information or the feelings they actually had. It wouldn't actually surprise him if that were true. "What is it?"

"He'll probably have to use the ritual of Keres to open the stone and remove the sliver."

Helga groaned, taking a quick slug from the can of Australian beer she'd been nursing before continuing. "This is some kinda fucking liturgical dancing, ritual bloodletting sort of crap, isn't it?"

"There's no dancing."

"Lucky us."

Angel tried to look over Giles's shoulder at the codex, but the handwriting was small and crabbed, as well as faded by age. If he stared at it long enough, he knew he'd induce a headache. "What will this ritual entail?"

"A large source of water, a broken evocation circle, and … yes, this is why he needed the demons: a sacrifice to Ker."

"Ker?" Brendan repeated. "Lemme guess - a big ugly demon thing?"

"In a sense. More a big ugly demon spirit, who traditionally dwells in a Hell dimension, and metes out punishment to those it feels deserves it."

"And there's no one who doesn't deserve it," Angel guessed.

Giles nodded. "We're all guilty of something."

According to Giles, water was considered a more "flexible" and less flammable place than earth, so while the evocation circle would have to be done on land, they would have to try and evoke the spirit over water. Once there, it would undoubtedly kill everything between it and the invokers, but as soon as the requisite blood infused with Ker's energy was shed and poured on the stone, the circle would be broken and the spirit repelled. By then, the splinter should emerge, and a vortex would open. What would happen after that was unclear; it would depend on what kind of magiks Charlton was using, and what his ultimate goal was. If he couldn't control the splinter - the most likely scenario - it would simply tear reality apart, in this and several other dimensions. The damage would be unfathomable, but the good news would be none of them would be alive to worry about it.

What they had to do was stop him before he revealed the splinter, and better yet, before he called up a Ker (there were technically several of them, but he only needed one). But there was a terrible irony in the fact that they'd probably encounter the demon army that was, in fact, a blood offering to Ker, and a vital part of opening the Erebus stone.

"Do we know how big his army is?" Helga wondered.

It was Brendan who had the closest thing to an answer. "No, but Thrak said he had to have at least a couple dozen of 'em now."

"And Logan's in them." Helga grimaced at that, in a way that suggested she really didn't want him to be there. So she had Bob and Logan as lovers? Was Logan aware of the plural relationships Stansin's usually had? If she went out and made it official - in a Stansin sense - he and Bob would technically be spouses. That would be both funny and unbelievably frightening.

"He's-"

"- angry," the Sisters said, and for a moment it seemed like a non-sequitur. But then Angel understood what they were getting at.

"Oh, yeah. He might not be in it."

Brendan looked at him funny, in a way that only a teenager could manage. It was the ocular version of a sneer. "Xavier said he was there."

"Yes, but something's wrong. Have you ever known Logan to be truly pissed off that he _has_ to fight?"

That flipped the switch. Brendan sat back, knowledge lightening his expression. "Oh, right, I get it. He's angry 'cause he's being kept out, most likely."

"I still don't get the whole thing about the fights," Naomi interjected. "If he just needed sacrifices, couldn't he have used just about anybody?"

Giles took that one. "He needs some of Ker's energy to open the stone. And since Ker can kill just about everything with little effort, he'd need the best of the best to even attempt to hurt it before they're killed. Which they will be, easily."

"But that's why you'd assume he'd want Logan in on it," Helga argued. "He could do a lot of damage to Ker before she killed him."

Yes, he could. Out of all the people Charlton had recruited, Logan would have the best shot at killing it, assuming he hadn't recruited a Beezle. Then Logan would be tied, or best shot number two. So why keep him out? Was Charlton that convinced his fighters could hurt Ker? Or was something else going on?

"Perhaps, in spite of his performance in the pit, Charlton decided he was too Human to be of any use," Giles suggested, but the way he grimaced suggested it felt as lame to him as it did to all of them. This was another missing piece of the puzzle.

Giles stretched, and slammed the book shut. "Do you know where there's a good magic shop around here?"

Helga snickered. ""I know where to get everything."

"Good. I need to make a stop and pick up some supplies before we reach Santa Monica."

They didn't exactly have a plan, but they really didn't have time for much of one. Besides, the old one was probably the best: hit everything that threatened them, and keep hitting them until they stayed down.

Sometimes the old ways were still the best.

18

So this is what it felt like to be a zombie.

Whatever spell that this asshole had thrown on him got stronger, and his inability to move got worse and worse, to the point where he eventually lost his ability to speak. Still, when he gestured, Logan found himself getting to his feet and following him as obediently as a dog. He felt totally disconnected from his own body; his mind raged rather pointlessly as his body obeyed alien whims.

The man was rich - he had a limo come around to pick him up, and the driver called him "Mr. Charlton", so at least he had a name for this fuckwit now. The driver didn't even glance at him, as if he was used to strange people moving robotically around his employer.

Once in the car, Charlton told him he why he was controlling him so savagely. "I'd like to think if I asked you to stay out of it you would, but come on. I saw you in action, and you don't seem the type to sit something out, even if I do tell you that all of them are going to die. I mean, they're filthy demons, aren't they? Who cares? But you're a fellow mutant, and I do admit that I would feel some guilt if I let you get sacrificed. Besides, I can see you as being valuable to me once things are over. You'll thank me later, trust me."

What he was thinking was: _'I'm going to rip your lungs out through your navel, you arrogant little prick.' _While he couldn't say it, it was building up in his head, and he was soon angry enough that he could see red creeping into his peripheral vision. He thought if he didn't vent some rage soon, his skull would split open from the pressure.

The limo took them out to the waterfront, and he guessed it to be Santa Monica, or thereabouts. Before them was what looked like an abandoned boardwalk, the buildings too decrepit to look like anything more than ruins, or perhaps a post-apocalyptic movie set. The sky was a strange color, a sort of eggplant, as the snow clouds had retreated here, revealing a sky like a contusion. It was eerie, and left everything in a half-light, as there was no sun visible. The water was slightly choppy for no obvious reason, a blanket of grey spotted by caps of white foam.

As they walked along the warped, worn boards, Logan could see a group of large, muscular demons, including the Ressik who won the first pit fight the night he "auditioned". They stood around looking confused but slightly belligerent, ready to fight on a cue. Obviously they hadn't been given a script, and didn't know what was expected of them. They didn't know they were going to die.

This was another situation where he wished he had telepathy. He could have flashed these guys a message that they were screwed, and there was enough of them to easily overwhelm Charlton. Would they bust him out of the spell? Well, maybe if they ripped the dickhead's fucking head off.

With a wave of his hand, Charlton sent Logan walking over to the rest of the fighter demons, some whom snarled at him, and others who took a step or two away. No, he wasn't beloved by them, but they weren't going to make a move against him. How _did_ they see Charlton? It must have been however Brezakaran appeared, because they seemed afraid of him, even though all of them towered over him, and two and a half Charltons would equal one of them.

There was a group of four people clad in black robes that had what appeared to be gold embroidery on them. Most of the symbols were foreign to him, but some looked like runes. They had burned what looked like a semi-circle farther down the boardwalk, and Logan caught a scent of blood and charred bones, both very much Human. Were these more employees, or did Charlton have himself a little cult? It wouldn't surprise him at this point.

A really weird looking demon appeared. It looked like a giant bipedal toad, all head and no neck, with huge eyes, mottled skin, and a mouth wide enough to swallow a watermelon sideways. It was lugging a heavy, rectangular metal case, which it set down with a thud some twenty feet away from him. Logan really wished he could turn his head, but all he could do was watch out of the corner of his eye as Charlton and his little group started up a chant in Egyptian Arabic, sprinkling about something that smelled pungent, like burned rubber and fermented bile.

Charlton started to back away from the group as the dockside began to tremble beneath their feet, and he gestured, making Logan move again. He'd tried to stop himself, to regain control over himself in some small part, but it was no use. This spell he had on him seemed air tight; it was more powerful than demon possession. It made him wonder how strong a magician/wizard/ whatever the fuck he was.

Charlton simply pointed, and Logan found himself picking up the metal case. It was much heavier than it looked, and -

- there were simply no words for the pain. It felt like his skin was detaching from his muscles, ripping away from his skeleton fiber by fiber, twisting and tearing under extreme pressure that just wouldn't stop. He wanted to drop it, but he couldn't, as he wasn't the one in control.

This was it, wasn't? The thing Giles was looking for - the Erebus stone. Even shielded by a lead box, the thing was so powerful it was trying to tear him apart. If he could just move, he would pop his claws and see if the thing was impervious to adamantium, or just toss it in the water, which would probably be just a minor setback, but would still buy them some time. Still, it was all a moot point. He wasn't moving until Charlton let him.

The wind was starting to pick up, the water churning violently as it slapped against the pier, and he thought he saw something forming in the air just above the water, about fifteen feet away and up from his little group of chanters. It was like a black mote, a small wound in the sky that was starting to grow bigger with each passing moment, and Logan just had a terrible feeling about this. Was he letting something out?

"Fighters to me," Charlton shouted over the roar of the wind. "Something might come through. Kill it if it does."

Was that the trap? He knew something was coming through, and he knew these guys couldn't kill it. But what was the point in that?

Suddenly, the big toad demon went flying into the water, spinning head over ass as he hit it with the force of a rocket.

Charlton and the fighters all looked, but Logan was left seeing it out of the corner of his eye.

"Is -"

"-this -"

"- a private -"

"- party, or -"

"- can anybody play?" The Sisters asked, grinning maniacally, which was all the more disturbing since they were already in vamp face.

He had never been more happy to see a pair of deranged homicidal lunatics in his life.


	12. Part 12

Charlton glared at them, but the assembled fighters just looked confused. "This is off limits to bloodsuckers," he snarled. "Get the fuck out of here."

The Sisters just grinned. "Not -"

"- until -"

"- we eat."

"Logan, get rid of them," Charlton said, with a wave of his hand.

How perfectly ironic. Maybe the Sisters wouldn't kill him; maybe they'd just knock him out, and when he woke up, he'd be free of this bastard.

He dropped the lead case, which hit the boardwalk hard, and started stalking towards the Sisters, neither of whom moved. They just stood there, grinning at him, as he stalked towards them, feeling his arm raise. It took a moment for his claws to spring, though, as if Charlton was unsure of the mechanism.

Suddenly he heard shouting in Latin - Latin with an English accent. Giles had joined the party, and just in the nick of time.

Logan vaguely understood the words, even though many syllables were torn away by the wind. He seemed to be shouting something along the lines of "Release the dark" something or other (beast? No, that couldn't possibly be right, not from Giles), and he felt something smash against his back, spreading warm liquid across his spine. He froze, feeling a tingling across his skin, something just short of itching, and he realized that he was getting feeling back in his limbs.

Charlton shouted something in Latin, and he saw a flash of yellow light out of the corner of his eye. Logan could turn his head now, enough to see that it was a big old battle of the spell casters. Charlton was holding up a hand, somehow supporting a virtually invisible field (you could see just a hint of yellow energy flickering at its edge) that curved around in front of him like a life sized shield. But Giles was holding up an invisible field of his own, and something else as well. In his right hand, he was holding what looked like a small crystal orb, that seemed to be glowing with a cycling greenish light. It was unclear who was on the offensive and who was on the defensive.

"What the hell is this?" the lead Ressik shouted, clearly not sure what to do. Did they fight the thing coming out of the hole in the sky, or these mad bastards on the pier?

Logan cleared his throat to make sure he could talk again, and then shouted, "It's a trap! He set you up! You're a sacrifice to his god!" Actually, he was guessing that last bit - he had no idea what they were being sacrificed for, or to whom.

"You -"

"- have -"

"- a choice -"

"- get eaten -"

"- by Ker, or -"

"- get killed by -"

"- us before she can -"

"- eat you. Clock's ticking." As if to emphasize this message, the Sisters pulled weapons out of their coats. One had a very large, nasty looking machete, and the other pulled out a length of chain, which had on the end of it a wicked looking spiked ball. As if the Weirds weren't intimidating enough on their own.

The group looked between them, and the growing hole in the sky, which was now about the size of an ironing board, and slowly growing larger. It was still impossible to tell what was beyond the opening.

Finally, the Ressik grunted and turned away. "Fuck this noise. I ain't bein' paid enough to deal with this shit." He stalked off, and most of the fighters, deeply confused, followed, mainly because they didn't know what else to do, and some were giving the Sisters nervous looks. Perhaps they knew who they were.

But the fact that his personal army was abandoning him only meant he had fewer people to defend him. He still had bodyguards that weren't going anywhere, because their livelihood depended on him surviving this. So the Sisters went after them with gusto, hacking and slashing away with giddy grins before the men could draw stakes or guns.

As soon as he had the ability, Logan reached down to grab the case with the Erebus stone, but it was too late. Somehow, it was inside the protective shield with Charlton. So he braced himself, popped his claws, and lunged at the bastard, going for his head. He wasn't going to dick around with a sorcerer.

Sadly, Charlton was prepared, and his shield apparently extended all the way around him, as he hit something invisible, but as hard as a brick wall and springy as rubber. It sent him flying backwards, until he collided with a wall, that broke apart beneath his weight. But at least it didn't send him flying straight through it.

As he sat on the dock, feeling like a dick, while debris continued to rain down on him and get torn away by the wind, he saw that one of the Frenik bodyguards was pulling a flask out of his pocket. Shit - that was probably holy water and not booze.

So he jumped to his feet and rushed the Frenik, driving one of his claws deep into his midsection (probably not a killing blow - they were as hard to kill as their Ressik cousins, right?) as he tackled him and shoved him back. The holy water splashed him, not the Sisters, and he wondered why he didn't burn. By all rights, he should; he was as much a killer as they were.

The Frenik seemed to shrug the knives in his gut off and punched him hard in the side of the head, an action that did rattle his skull a bit, and made the Frenik curse rather loudly, stumbling back and shaking his hand. "Fuck! I heard you Humans were blockheads, but that's ridiculous."

There was a dull, almost pneumatic "thoom", and a large copper bolt embedded itself in the Frenik's forehead. "I'd tell you to keep your day job, but I'd rather just kill you," Helga admitted, as the Frenik keeled over, instantly dead. Right, copper killed them too.

Helga was holding a small crossbow, and she loaded up another copper coated bolt as he watched. "Wouldn't you have rather had a good shag?"

"I'm hopin' the rain check's still on."

"Be a good boy, and we'll see."

He heard a familiar sizzle through the air, the strong smell of ozone joining the thick sent of demon blood, and looked down the boardwalk to see the black clad cultists' being propelled into the water by brief blasts of electricity. "The lady told you to back off," Brendan said, standing by in full Brachen face. Looking at the source of the electricity, he saw it was …

Holy shit. Naomi? He felt a sudden coldness overcome the lower half of his body, as if he was paralyzed once more, and he supposed he was. Oh god, he didn't need to see her right now. What was she doing here?

He was so distracted that he didn't notice the Frenik who had broken away from the Sisters' thorough slaughter until he tackled him, and sent them both falling over the edge of the boardwalk and into the water.

As if impact wasn't bad enough, the water was bizarrely cold for Southern California, enough to make it feel like his heart had stopped for a moment. But as they fell, the Frenik seemed unaffected by the cold, and drove what felt like a knife deep in his gut, twisting as he did so. The pain on top of the cold enraged him, and he simply slashed out and cut through his head. Maybe a Frenik could survive a simple decapitation, but could he survive his head being cut into three separate pieces? He bet not.

The body still held on, but he kicked it away and surfaced, gasping for air, his gut burning as the healing factor was greeted by the additional pain of salt water in an open wound. Fuck, that hurt. He was sorry that the bastard still wasn't alive; he'd kill him again just for that.

From the sound of it, fighting continued above, and the rift was opening wider, the winds howling like angry ghosts. He swam to the closest pylon and started climbing up, not using his claws because the wood wasn't thick enough, and probably couldn't take it.

He reached the edge of the boardwalk and pulled himself up, his gut wound briefly opening wider, making him snarl from the shock of pain. The pier was pretty much cleared now, the Sisters were kicking the bodies off the edge and into the water, while Helga seemed to be enjoying kicking the shit out of a remaining bodyguard. She could have killed him - she had copper - but clearly she just wanted to work some anger out first. So did he, now that he thought about it.

He was climbing to his feet as Charlton's cavalry arrived, a steroided out Frenik with a whole bunch of bodyguards, both demon and Human, about a dozen overall. Helga put a bolt through the Frenik she'd been playing with and looked at them. The Sisters were finished dumping bodies overboard and stared at them; Brendan, now holding the machete, stared at them, as did Naomi, whose right hand was glowing with energy, while blue-white sparks of energy dripped off her arm like sweat. Since his shirt was a torn, bloody, sodden mess (oh, was he glad it wasn't his), he tore it all off so they could see the wound on his abdomen sealing up, and he popped his claws, just to give 'em a look.

The group stood there staring back at all of them for about a minute. They all stared at each other quietly, waiting for someone to make the first move.

The cavalry dropped their weapons and ran.

They just watched them go, and Logan got the sense they were all vaguely disappointed. "They don't make bodyguards like they used to, do they?" Helga sighed.

"I wish I could rip off my shirt and just scare people away," Brendan said. "I need to get to the gym."

"You need to get a healin' factor too," Logan pointed out. Man, he was itching for a good fight; he hadn't had one yet. If only he could gut that Charlton bastard.

"Man -"

"- boobs -"

"- are pretty -"

"- frightening," the Sisters offered helpfully.

"Yeah, well, that ain't gonna get me laid either," Brendan replied tartly.

He helped Helga toss the dead Frenik in the water, and saw that Giles was using various spells to try and bust through Charlton's shielding spell, but so far all it did was cause some mystical pyrotechnics. Still, Logan figured out what the plan was. The best Giles could do was force a stalemate - and that was the point. He was backing him across the boardwalk in increments, towards that nice, growing gap in the sky. And now there was no sacrifices … except for them.

He sidled up to Helga, who was looking up at the black hole in the sky (it was about big enough to drive a Buick through it now), and asked, "What are we gonna do when it comes through?"

"Get behind me," Angel announced.

Logan turned to see him at the opposite end of the boardwalk from the great big swirly thing, standing with his hands behind his back, looking grimly between Giles and the hole in the sky. They did as he said, because what else could they do, and as Logan approached, he frowned and asked, "You do own a shirt, right?"

He glared at him, but saw the sparkle in his dark eyes that suggested it was a joke. Rather than acknowledge he had a point, he asked, "So what, does that thing up there hate dead things?"

"Not exactly. I have a secret weapon."

"Which is?"

"Patience."

Somehow, Logan doubted that was the weapon, and figured he was just telling him to shut his piehole. He was wearing a sword sheath on his back, but there was no way he was gonna scare a big ugly something away with a bloody sword, so ...

Wait a minute. It smelled wrong. It had a rather sour, moldy taint, a scent he could only describe as corruption. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and he had the overwhelming desire to either destroy it or preferably, avoid it. Not be near it, not touch it - best of all, not be in the same state with it. What the hell was that?

He didn't have a lot of time to ponder, as something came through the abyss like a butterfly breaking out of its cocoon. Dark wings unfolded, blotting out half the sky, while the thing let out a screech that was mostly in the sub-audible range; you could feel it more than hear it, the rapid vibration of a dental drill jammed into your ear drum. Everybody winced, while Logan was sure one of his ear drums had burst - which was all right really, as that lessened the pain considerably. Sometimes hearing better than anyone was just asking for trouble.

The ... what the hell was it? It was maybe thirty feet long from wing tip to wing tip, with a serpentine body that was maybe only twenty feet long. It was the color of dried blood that had oxidized, and had a head shaped like a spear, sharply triangular with three compound eyes lined up in a single vertical row, while its mouth split into two triangular pieces. It had no obvious nose, and the talons that unfurled from the lower half of its body were more like tentacles than legs. There was almost something translucent about it too, as if it were made of smoke. If it had a smell, it was a replication of the scent of gases escaping from the cut open stomach of a Human corpse.

Giles quickly retreated, keeping his shielding spell up, and Charlton finally realized it was out, and he was closest to it. He quickly tried to conjure something up and threw it at the thing, but the orb of energy just seemed to slide right through it, as if it was indeed smoke, and it swooped down towards him, a prehistoric predator closing in on a meal.

Logan knew he would have preferred gutting the bastard, but seeing the smoky, translucent beak stab through Charlton's midsection while its tentacle talons grabbed his body and lifted it into the air was gratifying. He writhed and shouted something that might have been the beginning of a spell while the beast pulled him off its beak and popped him whole into its mouth. "Like any spell would be effective on Ker," Giles noted scornfully. He was sweating and breathing hard, like fighting Charlton to a mystical stalemate had taken it out of him. Maybe it had - he had no idea how magic worked. "There's no magic in its kingdom, precisely because it doesn't work."

Angel pulled out the sword, the one that smelled strongly of corrosion, corruption, and consumptive hunger, and held it up as the beast turned its dark gaze on them. "Do you really want a piece of this?" He asked, as the thing - Ker? - seemed to recoil in horror. It could smell that too, huh?

Angel started to advance, the blade of the sword gleaming like quicksilver, and Ker started to retreat, back towards its hole. That's when Logan saw that the case, the one containing the sliver, was still laying on the boardwalk, precisely where it had been when Charlton had been protecting it.

He was still hearing out of just the one ear, although his other was rapidly healing. Still, he wasn't sure anyone said anything as he went to retrieve the case, and wondered what he should do with it. Should he try his claws on it, or was it pointless? Toss it in the water, let it get covered up by dumped garbage and treated sewage? Let Angel chop it up with his bad ass evil sword?

That was when he realized what Giles had said, and suddenly had a much better idea.

He grabbed the case, picking it up and doing his best to ignore the feeling that his skin was being pulled off, and started to follow Angel and the recoiling Ker.

And that's when he saw Mariko standing at the end of the pier.

She was standing beneath that dimensional open wound, seemingly unaffected by the winds or the spasming gravitational energy, looking serene and almost forlorn. She wore black silk pants and a deep aquamarine silk shirt, her black hair framing her delicate face. She looked beautiful enough to make his heart hurt, leave him feeling winded. He just stared for a moment, not sure what was going on.

Then he saw that movement in her eyes, some greater darkness behind her black pupils, and understood that these people didn't want him to do it. They wanted him to put it down, and leave it to Angel - leave it here. That was all he had to do; put it down and walk away. And he would have Mariko back.

Why didn't he believe that? Why did he somehow think it wasn't that simple? She was there, she was right there ... of course it had to be that simple! It wasn't even a big deal, was it? Angel would destroy the thing, and they'd never have to worry about it again.

Right?

Angel swung the sword at Ker a couple of times, and the blade seemed to break the air viciously, as if it was actually killing the very molecules in the atmosphere, not so much splitting the atoms as obliterating them. Ker retreated back inside its hole, the wings folding in last, and with the ritual uncompleted or broken, it looked like the dimensional rift had already been shrinking, closing in on itself. It did so rapidly now that Ker was back inside.

Logan closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and made himself throw the case. "I'm so sorry baby," he whispered.

There wasn't so much a noise once the rift closed itself, more of a feeling of pressure lightened, like the atmosphere had been changing around them without their knowledge. Logan's ears popped, but he wasn't sure if that was related to his healing ear drum or not.

"What the hell did you do that for?" Giles shouted angrily.

He opened his eyes, relatively sure he wasn't going to cry, and Mariko - along with the hole in the sky - was gone. The fact that it wasn't really her was cold comfort indeed. "You said there was no magic in that world, yeah? So they can't open it, right?"

Giles stared at him in a mixture of befuddlement and anger, and Angel came up beside him, asking, "Is that true?" He sheathed the sword, and the itchy feeling on the back of his neck ceased.

Giles had to think about it a moment, but finally he admitted, "Uh … yes. Why didn't I think of that before? Magic and Ker energy is needed to free the stone, but in the Ker controlled dimension, they have all the power. It will just be a harmless stone there."

"And we don't have to worry about someone comin' around and picking up the pieces," Logan pointed out, wiping salt water off his face. Surely that was why his eyes were tearing up - yes, that was it.

Giles was looking at him funny, and so was Helga. "You thought was a possibility?"

Now Angel was looking at him funny. Ah shit, what was he going to say? _'They offered me my wife back. All I had to do was pretend that I didn't know what they were gonna do.' _"Don't a bunch of stupid, evil fucks _always _resurrect this kinda thing? This way, it's not even our problem anymore, and somehow I don't think Rodan there will have a hard time defending it."

They nodded, as if that was completely logical, but Angel kept giving him a funny look that he was beginning to find deeply irritating. What, he couldn't come up with a brilliant plan on his own? "Good show," Giles said, almost reluctantly, as he mopped sweat off his forehead with an actual cloth handkerchief. He had no idea anyone even made those anymore. "Angel, we'd better get you and … them inside. The sun's sure to return soon, and we don't need you bursting into flame."

"Shake -"

"- or -"

"- bake."

Giles gave the Sisters a look that was so suspicious that it seemed to amuse them. "Since when do they have a sense of humor?"

Angel shrugged. "Angelus thought they were hilarious."

"Yes, well, we know what his sense of humor was like."

"Nailing -"

"- priests -"

"- to privy -"

"- walls with -"

"- sharpened crucifixes."

Naomi stared at Angel in disbelief. "You never actually did that, did you?"

Angel shifted uncomfortably, crossing his arms over his chest. "Not me … exactly."

There was no time to discuss it, not out here, as Logan could feel the heat returning, and the sky was starting to lighten bit by bit. It would be sunny in no time.

Logan hung back, feeling like he had a block of dry ice in his gut, and his muscles were twitching with restlessness. He needed a mean, dirty fight, and he needed it now, before he just started screaming and smashing things. He could give an excuse and head off to Chinatown. They probably would remember him, especially if some of the Yakuza dregs were hanging around. He knew where to look for them; he knew how to make them remember him. He aggressively wiped water from his stinging eyes with his forearm.

Angel hung back too, and asked, in a hushed tone, "What did you see?"

He looked at him askance from the corner of his eye. "What d'ya mean?"

"I saw your face before you threw it. You … it looked like you'd seen a ghost."

He didn't know what to tell him. The truth seemed too hard, too impossible to say. It lodged in his throat like a bone, and he knew he'd never get it out. Eventually, he just said, "I just saw what I wanted to see."

But Angel wouldn't let it go. "What was it?"

What could he say? "A life." A life he once had, and would never have again, for as long as he lived.

However fucking long that would turn out to be.

19

He stopped briefly to dry off and get a shirt, and then broke into Bob's garage and jacked a motorcycle. He had a couple, and he selected a big, nice looking Harley, black with chrome accents. Somehow, Logan felt he was anticipated. Maybe it was the fact that the bike not only had a full tank of gas, but the keys were taped to the throttle, with a small note saying : _'Wreck this and I'll give the Sisters your phone number.' _Bob just lived to be an ass, didn't he? Even when he wasn't here.

Logan had turned off his mind completely. He didn't think about what had happened, about the blank and unfamiliar look Naomi gave him, about Mariko's pleading stare. He couldn't think; if he thought, he would go mad. All he needed was a few drinks and to drown himself in futile, empty violence. At least he would forget for a while.

He found a very sleazy bar in Chinatown that went by the name "Rakudo", "paradise" in Japanese, which seemed especially funny since it was a dumpy dive bar with bad lighting and too much wood paneling. It smelled like bad sake, cigarettes, and those damned dried soy snacks. This was a place where tourists never ventured, and bad Japanese pop songs played on an unseen stereo. Logan sat boldly at the bar, garnering stares from the all Asian (and all male), and ordered the best Japanese beer they had on tap (which was actually not even close to the best). He even lit up a cigar, since they smoked in here, and he returned their stares with a sort of empty hostility. It was a tacit invitation for someone to start something - anything. Although he got some ugly glances in return, no one bit, no one took the bait.

A man seated at a back table whispered something to a young man who looked like a menial worker, and he nodded before quickly disappearing into the back. He was going to go tell the local Yakuza rep - whoever that unlucky son of a bitch was - that a guy matching the description of Logan Yashida was back in town. There were only a few questions: how long would it take the hit squad to get here, and would they come in, or would they wait for him outside? If he told them he'd just helped save the universe today, would they decide not to shoot him, and just knife him instead?

It suddenly occurred to him that he'd totally forgotten all about Lotus Wing. He was supposed to see her, wasn't he? What did she want? He supposed he'd actually have to see her to find out, but he wasn't especially eager to invite more trouble into his life. He'd had more than his share.

He was on his second beer when he felt something like a shift in the air, a small and sudden breeze that make the gray smoke in the air curl in on itself, like a tidal undertow. Logan figured the Yakuza squad was coming in from the back, and glanced up to see if they'd open fire in a bar, when he saw something that he didn't expect to see.

Spike.

He was now standing at the back of the room, his skin so pallid and his hair so shockingly bleach blond that he stood out from the shadows surrounding him. His black on black clothes enhanced the effect; he could have been a ghost, manifesting in pieces before fading away. He made sure he had seen him before turning away and disappearing again, turning away into totally darkness.

Logan got up, deeply confused, and gulped down his beer before following him. Wasn't he lost in the same dimension as Angel? So he was back too? Angel hadn't mentioned that. Then again, he might not know such a thing.

The back of the bar was basically a narrow corridor containing restrooms, but at the far end was an emergency exit that could only be opened from the inside. So Spike couldn't have come in through it. What had he done, climb in through the bathroom window? It seemed unlikely that he would have been in this armpit of a bar.

The exit opened on a service alley filled with the overflowing dumpsters of neighboring restaurants and karaoke bars. As he stepped out, he saw the hands reaching for him, but he let them grab him. Why not? What else did he have to do?

Spike grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him into the brick wall beside the door. "How could you bloody do that? I always knew you were a stupid berk, but that was the most idiotic thing I've ever seen - and I've hung with teenagers!"

Logan ripped his hands off of him, and snapped, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"We needed that," he replied cryptically, a strange darkness moving across his eyes like storm clouds scudding over the moon.


	13. Part 13

That movement behind the eyes, he recognized it, didn't he? No, it wasn't his memory - it was Bob's. He had gleaned something from having had his energy in him so many times, and he knew that darkness behind the eyes was really bad. It was a sign of physical corruption, of a type of possession. "Who needed it? Who are you representing now, Spike?"

Spike stared at him belligerently, as if not understanding the question. "I don't represent anyone, oik. I just wised up. I have no idea why I ever switched to the losing side. Temporary insanity, I guess."

He wasn't sure he followed what he was getting at, but then he dug up who Bob ascribed those dark and moving eyes to, the ones who he considered "corrupted". "You've sided with the Senior Partners?"

Spike scoffed. He smelled right … more or less. There was a hint of a new, strange scent beneath his normal vampiric one, something that must have been the smell of the Senior Partners. It was a really strange one, like stagnant water. "Sided? They weren't the ones who abandoned me to a slow and hideous death, are they?"

"No, they're just the ones who subjected you to a slow and hideous death."

He glared at him, not amused. But it was the truth, wasn't it? If Angel wanted to kill him, he'd just have staked him and been done with it. With no warning at all, Spike punched him in the face, not breaking his nose but definitely bloodying it. "You fucking moron, you have n-"

Logan slammed a flattened palm in his face, hard enough to shatter his nose and send him flying back into the wall of the karaoke bar. It wasn't hard enough to shove the fragments of cartilage into his brain, but he just barely restrained himself, and Spike had to know he could have if he was really in the mood. "Who's the fucking moron? You're still a vampire, and I'm still the "Decapitator". You wanna fight? You won't last long - one swipe and I'm done here, and so are you. Why don't you get on your way before I decide to get your traitorous ass out of the picture for good?"

Spike wiped away some of the blood pouring from his nose, smearing it across his face as he sneered at him, glancing between his face and his right hand, which he had extended out to his side, hand curled into a fist. He hadn't popped his claws, but he could have in a millisecond, and they both knew it. But Spike didn't like it. "You took the opportunity of a lifetime and pissed it down your leg. You think the fucking Powers are gonna give you your sodding wife back? They want to keep you unhappy; it works better for 'em to keep you miserable. Not that that's all that difficult."

"My wife is dead," he growled, really wanting to kill him now. "All they coulda given me was a simulacrum, infected like you are."

Spike continued to glower bloody murder at him, but didn't dare make a move. Whatever the Senior Partners had done to him, it wasn't enough to ensure that decapitation wouldn't mean his death. "Believe that if you want, if that makes it easier for you to sleep at night. But you'll never know, will you? You blew it. And why? I know; I know who you are, and I know what's gonna happen. You can't do it, Logan. Are you that thick? You haven't figured it out yet?"

"Shut your fucking mouth," he growled.

He ignored him. "Old baldy is using you, and you're letting him! Why? 'Cause you wanna pretend you belong somewhere? You wanna pretend you're not a freak among freaks?"

Logan grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the back wall of Rakudo, raising his fist and holding it three inches from his eyes. "Will the Partners give you new eyes?" He snarled.

Spike chuckled dryly, although he was emitting a fear scent now. "It ain't like I don't sympathize, mate. I ended up that way myself. You want to feel like you're not _really_ alone, and Xavier needs someone in his ponce brigade who can pull the trigger when the time comes. Do you think of any of his pets could cowboy up and do it? He needs a weapon, someone who won't be so concerned about their own self-righteousness that they'll hesitate to bring the hammer down when they need to. And you _know _it. He doesn't tell his tin soldiers, and you don't talk about it, but you know. You know he pretends he's aiding your "rehabilitation" and opening his home and wallet to all mutants, when in reality he's really just stockpiling a weapon for a future disaster. He's psychic, isn't he? He knows what's coming, and he knows they're gonna need you. And you know what role you fill, even if the pansy division has no idea. You have been and always will be a time bomb; it's all you are and all you're good for. You're a killer, Logan, plain and simple. So why not use that to your advantage? As soon as Xavier sees no further need for you, you're out the door - possibly with the "safety of the children" excuse. Stop being a patsy. Control your destiny for once."

Spike knew nothing about him, about Xavier, about his life. This had to be the Senior Partners talking, or using Spike as a mouthpiece. It didn't make him any less furious, any less willing to tear him into a dozen different pieces. He dropped his fist, and rammed it into Spike's gut, springing his claws on impact.

Spike made a noise of pain and doubled over, as Logan grumbled, "If I was really just a killer, they'd have gone through your neck, you smarmy little shit." He tossed Spike down the alley, retracting his claws, and trying to get a hold of his temper. It was extremely difficult. "Control your own fucking destiny. Stop being a puppet of the Partners, and then get back to me."

It took him a moment to climb to his feet, holding his gut the whole time. But when he was standing again, he was snickering, and turned to look at him with a pained smirk. "The time is coming, you stupid twat. Make your choice soon, or have it made for you."

"Oh boy, another vague threat from a bunch of evil, absent fuckheads. Watch me shake." Spike just turned and walked off, apparently not willing to risk further dissection. Who was he calling ponces again? "Hey - what did they need the stone for?"

His answer was to hold his hand over his shoulder and give him the finger, making Logan wonder if he even knew why. Maybe it was just an order he was supposed to obey.

Did he think he was going to get anywhere? He had his scent now; he could trace him through the city. All he had to do was call Angel, and they could hunt him down. He and Angel and Giles could make real short work of Spike and his Senior Partner "symbiont", or whatever the fuck was in him.

It was then headlights scudded across the alley wall, and he heard an awful lot of car doors opening and slamming shut, along with the cocking of guns. Ah, so his earlier appointment had arrived. Well, time to take out this trash - Spike could wait for now.

It wasn't like he wasn't going to come back and haunt them all.

20

Taking out a bunch of gangsters was always a bittersweet thing. Yes, a big dirty fight did make him feel a little better, but it also made him feel a bit worse. There was the guilt, of course, but it wasn't nearly as bad as the multiple bullet wounds and some minor but painful burns (he should have known that if the Triad could get flamethrowers, so could the Yakuza).

Still, as soon as he stopped smoldering, and decided to go back to Bob's place (where else did he have to go?), it actually occurred to him to make a detour. He'd promised to pay someone a visit, hadn't he?

He drove to the Wing building, and just in time, as it looked like it was being abandoned for the night. The guy in the lobby gave him a funny look, probably because of all the bullet holes that had made his new shirt (again, not his - grabbed from Bob's stuff) - oh, and the blood splatters, and some minor charring. "Tell Lotus the hairy bastard gaijin is here," he told him. "She's expecting me."

He seemed reluctant to believe that, but he called up, and Lotus, who was here, gave the okay to send him on up. He took the elevator to the top, where Wing's office had the nicest view and the most powerful air conditioning. It was still all polished wood, leather, and plush carpets, and low lighting, because Lotus only had her desk lamp on. She was loading documents into a briefcase, her sharp features even more drawn and lupine in the sparse light. "Dare I ask what happened to you?"

He shrugged, and slumped down in the nearest chair. He was still pretty achy and tired. "I guess I'm not welcome in the Japanese bars of Chinatown. So why'd you want to see me? If it's a lecture, I'm just gonna go."

She slammed the briefcase shut and shoved it aside, sitting in the chair behind the desk with a weary sigh. "It's not a lecture. My father is dead."

He nodded. "I figured as much. He sounded really bad the last time I talked to him. Next time I past a Buddhist temple, I'll go and light some incense for him."

She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow at him. "You don't strike me as a Buddhist."

"I'm not. I'm a failed Buddhist. The funny thing about finding peace is you can't if other people won't let you have it. So what did ya call me here for? Certainly not just to invite me to the funeral."

"His funeral was last week."

"Of course it was." He didn't think she'd invite him anyways.

"It seems, Mr. Yashida, that my father named you in his will."

He looked around for digital cameras, on the off chance he was being "punked". "Huh?"

"Yes, that was my reaction as well," she deadpanned, opening a drawer in the desk. "First off, he left you a check for fifty thousand dollars that he wishes you would anonymously donate to that mutant school of yours. He added that perhaps you'd like to spend the funds on more security."

He snorted a small laugh. "Yeah, that'd be nice."

She pulled out a key ring with two keys on it and set them on the desk blotter. "Also, he left you his "safe house" condo on the West Side. He rarely used it, he preferred having a home on the water, but it was for the times when he wanted to get away. It's yours."

He looked at her in confusion. She didn't seem to be the kind of person who had a sense of humor, so it was unlikely to be a joke. "He left me a condo?"

"Just the penthouse suite; he didn't own the whole building. Everything in it is yours, though; I don't care to sift through any more things."

He leaned forward and took the key ring, wondering what kind of relationship Lotus had with her dad. She didn't seem to broken up about his death, but he'd been ill so long it was probably a relief that he finally just died, and stopped being in so much pain. Also, if she was trying to fill his shoes as head of the Triad, she probably couldn't afford to show any sign of weakness - many traditionalists would be reluctant to follow a woman.

"That's it?" he wondered. She wasn't big on sentiment, so there was no reason for him to pretend he was either.

"Almost." She stood up, and opened what looked to be a big, leather bound checkbook. "I never want to see you again."

He'd heard that too many times to be offended. "Let's call it mutual."

She glanced up sourly, but the look was brief, and she busied herself filling out the check instead.

At least they had an understanding.

* * *

Out of sheer curiosity, he went to the condo. It was very nice, a conical tower of steel and glass, only twelve stories high, but looming over all the other smaller buildings in this neighborhood. The elevator was quiet and rapid, and the condo itself lived up to the "penthouse suite" name. The suite took up the entire floor, and yet the front room was so sparsely furnished as to make it look almost cavernous. A rich azure carpet stretched from wall to wall, and was so plush and deep he thought he could lay down on it and make a snow angel. The sofa was sectional, a reddish hued brown leather, arranged in a very loose semi-circle around a low, rectangular coffee table of highly burnished mahogany. A window wall looked out on this section of the L.A. skyline, and seemed to stretch on for an insane length, as if the glass was warping it somehow, mimicking the curve of the earth. Over in the cabinet where a large and relatively new television sat in a compartment over the surround sound stereo system, he found a small remote that didn't seem to match any of the appliances. He pressed the main button out of curiosity, and the window wall began to hum. As he watched, it opaqued completely, to the point where the entire suite was thrown into complete darkness. Cool trick. Why did gangsters always have the neat stuff?

He prowled the suite, finding a big and rather lavish bathroom, all marble tiles, slate, and glass, and a large bedroom, where a king sized bed was draped in masculine colors of silk and cotton, a deep brown offset with bronze, while a built in bookcase contained many a book in Chinese, sometimes hiding American pulp paperbacks. Wing _liked _Tom Clancy? Weird.

The bed was impeccably made, but he messed it up when he climbed on top of it to have a better look at the painting hanging over the bed in a glass and silver frame. It was "Motiv Aus Hammamet" by Paul Klee, squares of colors with a hint of patterns included, but the funny thing was, it didn't look like a print. There's no way it could be the real one, was there? More weirdness. A Tom Clancy fan into early twentieth century expressionism? Maybe it was just an excellent forgery.

The place had been cleaned recently - he could still smell traces of cleaning solvents, and the exhaust of a vacuum cleaner - which made sense, since they'd want to make sure there was no trace of Mr. Wing in here, even forensically. It was unlikely that he ever had any illegal dealings here, but they'd still want to make sure.

The place was too nice for him, too big and too rich, and while he imagined he'd enjoy it for a while, he didn't want a place in Los Angeles. He didn't want to get comfortable here. The more time he spent in places like this, the more he missed Canada. But he did know who could use a place. After all, he accidentally ruined Angel's last place - this would make up for it and then some.

He left, and returned to Bob and Helga's loft in the far sadder side of the city, although the fact that Bob's place was in an industrial area made it seem a bit less sad, and far more sterile. He parked the Harley inside the garage, where he had found it, and left the keys in the ignition, as it was unlikely someone other than him would be stupid enough to steal from Bob.

Upstairs, Helga was sprawled on the couch, asleep, and from then on he was extremely quiet, not wanting to wake her. The sun was coming up in about forty minutes or so, it'd been a hell of a long night, and he was tired too. But he wasn't sure he could sleep.

He got in the shower to wash off the blood and cordite, and his exhausted brain was still full of "what ifs" - what if he could have had Mariko back? What if it didn't matter what side anyone was on? What if the only way he could find any peace was if he retreated from the world completely? What if Xavier did kick him out if he came to the end of his usefulness?

He scrubbed his hands through his hair, closing his eyes tightly against threatening tears. He wanted her back - he didn't care if she was part evil, and not at all the woman she actually was. A part of him wanted Mariko in any form; it didn't matter if he had to deal with the devils to get her back. And he didn't know why he threw the stone away. Would it have mattered at all? If the Senior Partners reconstructed it or found a way to exploit the shattered stone, Angel would have kicked their asses. The Powers That Be wouldn't bet the farm on a horse that couldn't run the distance.

He didn't need to be told he didn't belong anywhere; he'd always known that. But when he had Mariko, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

He was chasing a ghost, pursuing a memory he barely had, a woman who was more a feeling than anything else. All that he didn't have - that he couldn't have - was starting to consume him, and he knew he would have to let her go. But he didn't know how.

The shower curtain was drawn back, startling him, but it was just Helga stepping inside. "Okay, so where have you been? Or maybe I should say whose ass did you kick?"

He lifted his face to the stream of water, washing away the tears, and said, "You smelled the blood?"

"And gunpowder, yeah. Do I even wanna know?"

"Probably not."

She stepped in front of him, her green eyes as sharp and knowing as a cat's. "Should I go?"

He stared at her, wishing she could be enough, and wondering why she wasn't. "No. I just want to forget."

"Easy enough," she replied, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him into a passionate kiss, her slick, naked body pressing against his.

No, it wasn't exactly love, but it would do for now.

* * *

He didn't think he would dream, he thought he was too exhausted, but he did anyways. At least it wasn't a torture memory.

This time he was standing in a cemetery, in front of a freshly dug grave, the sun turning the sky a honey gold while the rolling lawn was as green as Helga's skin. He seemed to be the only mourner, and the coffin was on the grass beside the hole, shaped like a fat torpedo and glistening black, like a beetle's carapace.

Was Mariko in there? He wondered, as the wind bent the trees and made a noise like air whistling through a piece of hollow bamboo. He could smell nothing but green, the scent of chlorophyll baking in the sun and the odor of fresh earth. He touched the coffin, its smooth surface was warm from the sun, and he moved up to the top, wondering if Mariko was inside. But the place was too empty, and he knew that people would have turned up for her funeral. Was it him? He suddenly had the idea that if he opened up the lid, he would be looking down at himself. He worked his fingers under the surprisingly heavy lid, and started to lift it up …

… and woke up, of course, because that was how it always happened, wasn't it?

Logan sighed and rolled over, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. For some reason, it was shaped like a smiling green plastic snail with a small smiling ladybug on its shell. He didn't understand it, but this was Bob's place, and if it didn't have these startling grotesqueries, he wouldn't know where he was.

It was nearly noon, and Helga was gone from the bed. But he heard faint strains of music in the living room, and there was the smell of something savory cooking, soy proteins and herbs and vegetables, which was a surprise since he didn't know she could cook. Well, why not? She could do so much else.

He stumbled to the shower and had a quick one, trying to see if cold water could get the cobwebs out of his head (no), and then stole clothes from Bob's drawer, ending up with a Farscape t-shirt and a pair of jeans that more or less fit, and weren't too gaudy or otherwise leather. At least they didn't smell like blood and cordite.

He was headed for the living room when he recognized the soft sonic wash of the Stone Roses, and he heard a man singing rather expansively along with the song, " … in me, I wanna be adored …"

He couldn't believe it. Bob was here? He should have known. "I Wanna Be Adored" was probably his theme song.

And even though Bob knew about him and Helga - he knew everything, didn't he? - he still felt unbelievably awkward venturing out from the bedroom. How did you look a guy in the eye when you were technically fucking his girlfriend last night … er, this morning? Oh yeah, and he was wearing some of his clothes.

But Bob was far from surprised to see him. He waved, stirring something in a wok on his stove, and said, "Will you get the croissants out of the oven? That fish head shaped thing hanging on the fridge is a hot pad."

Good god, it was. He scowled at Bob, but he went on singing and ignored him. So he took the fish head and got the croissants out of the oven - there were six of them on a cookie sheet - as Bob poured the contents of the wok in a big bowl.

Bob didn't have a kitchen here more than he had a kitchenette, so there was nowhere to put the stuff except on a small wooden table that was essentially filling in for a genuine kitchen table. Bob still had the longer, blond highlighted scruffy hair, and looked more or less the same as he always looked, wearing leather pants and a blue tank top with the curious logo "Hot Space Station Justice" and a small cartoon robot on the front (he'd learned not to ask if he didn't want to know), but was something different about him? It was hard to tell, what with the scent of fresh croissants and Bob's odd breakfast concoction filling his nostrils, but he was relatively sure Bob's scent had changed ever so slightly. The Belial demon smell of him - which smelled oddly like dried leaves - seemed to more predominant than usual.

Bob took a seat and started ladling the stuff in the big bowl to smaller bowls. "Yer in for a real treat. You've never had my boble before."

He put one of the small bowls in front of him. It was full of stir fried vegetables, soy bacon and sausage pieces, cellophane noodles, dried cranberries, and about six different herbs. It smelled strange, but kind of good. "Boble?"

"It's a contraction of "Bob's scramble". I'd throw a bunch of different leftovers in a pot and make something of it. Now I've made it a science, much to the dismay of my kids. There's soy and hot sauce if you want either."

"Thanks," he replied dubiously, as Bob tucked into his bowl of "boble". Logan sat down, and reluctantly picked up his fork, picking at it slightly. What he thought was a snow pea turned out to be a green bean.

"Hel's at the bar. She's better at running the day to day stuff than I am. Also, she generally scares the customers more."

"Hard to believe." It was equally hard to believe the crap in the bowl tasted good, but strangely it did. The oil he used was tinged with basil and red peppers.

Bob smiled at him, but in a curious way that suggested he knew something he shouldn't. "You know, don't ya?"

"Know what?" He was going to have to narrow it down.

"I'm on parole. That's why you don't have any of my energy anymore. I'm kinda … corporeal at the moment."

He stared at him, not sure he understood what he was saying. "So … what? You're not a god anymore?"

Bob shrugged, grabbing up a hot croissant and tearing it apart. "I am, just a slightly trapped one. Don't worry - the Powers have done this to me before, and I got my powers back anyways. And I'm still an old Belial demon, so I have all the requisite powers. It's all good."

"Don't old Belials go nuts?"

"Oh, I'm immune to that. I'm already nuts." He gave him a big, cheesy grin before chewing on part of the croissant.

Yeah, he meant that as a joke, and yet it wasn't, which was frightening.

Bob asked him about "saving the universe", and Logan told him about it, as much as he had to, and tore into a croissant himself. It was really good, but then again, this was technically food of the gods, right? (He internally grimaced at the pun.) He wasn't surprised Naomi had shown up - suspicious in itself - but when he tried to steer the conversation towards whether he had told her about their previous, pre-mind wipe relationship, he turned the conversation back to his "parole". "What did you do to piss off the Powers now?"

Bob shrugged, grimacing in an embarrassed way. "Oh, it's related to the whole Jean/Camaxtli thing. They didn't like the way I handled it - Eris complained - so -"

"What Jean/Camaxtli thing?" He asked, staring at him. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to understand that or not.

Bob gave him a strange look in return. "You know, this whole Jean as demi-god shit that's made life a living hell for the past few months."

He couldn't help but feel a surge of anger, not sure why Bob had to pick now to be especially incoherent. "What the hell are you talking about? Jean wasn't a demi-god. She died at Alkali Lake."

Bob's strange glance became a startled stare, his cobalt eyes growing impossibly wide. "Holy shit. They erased your memories."

Logan stared back at him, not sure if he should be genuinely upset or just vaguely irritated.

What the fuck was he talking about?

* * *

_To Be Continued_


End file.
